


Saudade

by lalazee



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drama, F/M, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Romance, Teen Romance, Telepathy, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about two lost boys who find their identities in each other, only to be torn apart by their fears, confusion, and insecurities. This is a story about scars and anger, forgiveness and trust. This is a story that spans more than ten years – from that first, sudden summer love, through the trialling Academy years, and into the adventure of adulthood. This is a story about a love that remains – whether it’s wanted or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Saudade  
> [ _saw_ ˈ _da_. _de_ ]
> 
> A deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for someone that one loves and is apart from. It often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.
> 
>  
> 
> _The love that remains._

Iowa was a vibrant, summer myriad of gold and blue and green. In the privacy of Spock’s mind, he found himself fond of the abundant colour combination.  
  
Upon arrival the day before, he had been interested in the amber fields extending beyond the reaches of his acute vision. The area was vaguely reminiscent of a lush, simplistic version of Vulcan. The gold and bronze horizon, with the scorched earth of dust and clay gave him some comfort in this foreign land.  
  
But then, Spock came to realise what Iowa truly had in store for him.  
  
Corn. This was what the state of Iowa offered Spock – exponential rows of corn, interspersed with wheat and soybean fields. Juxtaposed with a verdant, blue sky and a warm sun, Spock’s first impression of Iowa was that – although droll in its repetitious topographical setting – it was pleasant. He found that he was eager to investigate this new planet.  
  
Exploration required a means of transport. His Aunt Anna – she insisted she be called Aunt, and not simply Anna – had handed him the keys to an antiquated automobile. She had explained, with a smile evocative of his mother’s, that the vehicle had ‘been in the family’ for decades.  
  
Spock had found it most disconcerting that a person might equate an automobile with a flesh and blood family member; but he minded his mother’s warnings about human turns of phrase, and bit his tongue in the most literal sense.  
  
A single viewing of the dusty, black Oldsmobile illustrated the gravity of its age. The automobile had sat in a shed, at the back of the property, for an indeterminable number of years. When Spock turned the key into the ignition, the sound produced from beneath the hood was foreboding.  
  
His aunt and uncle had assured him that with some fresh gasoline, the vehicle would run well enough until it could be repaired. Apparently they had had no time to tend to the Oldsmobile’s malfunctions before Spock arrived. But, according to his Uncle, approximately five miles away there was a repair shop called Riverside Mechanics, which specialised in antique cars.  
  
It was not approximately five miles away – it was six point two miles – but Spock understood that Humans had a poor internal gage of time and distance. They were rather oblivious creatures, as a race.  
  
And Riverside Mechanics did not look like a particularly promising establishment. As someone who had grown up in stringent cleanliness and quality service, this hulking equivalent of a dusty gas station was not impressive. But Spock was concerned that his transport might fail in the middle of an empty stretch of road, and that was an experience he preferred to avoid.  
  
Spock parked and entered the main facility. His olfactory system was overwhelmed by the thick, musky odour of gasoline, exhaust, and wax. It was entirely unpleasant, but Spock could set aside the discomfort. He approached the front desk and stood there for a moment, with hands clasped behind his back with brows held high, as he waited for service.  
  
No one arrived.  
  
He looked down at the scuffed counter top and noted a primitive tin bell. A scrawled note beside it informed Spock to press the bell for service. He did, and the bright jangle echoed in the silence.  
  
Still, no one arrived.  
  
Spock’s eyebrows drew together. This establishment was meant to be ideal in terms of repairing antique automobiles. He was growing skeptical of this rumour. Everything appeared rather disorganised, dusty, and bereft of life – human or otherwise.  
  
He turned to vacate the premises, when his ears pricked up. He caught a distant noise; not an errant sound, but music. A lively, grinding song composed mainly of the Terran instrument Spock recognised as an electric guitar, accompanied by soulful male vocalisations.  
  
The racket emanated from the back of the building. Spock assumed where there was music, there should be someone present, listening.  
  
 _I’ll soon be with you, my love – to give you my dawn surprise_.  
  
Spock stepped outside, his expression curious as he rounded the main building. As he turned the corner, he was fully assaulted with a blistering wave of what Humans termed as ‘rock and roll’. Although how this form of music related to conglomerated earth in motion was beyond his skills of deduction.  
  
 _I’ll be with you darling, soon – I’ll be with you when the stars start falling_.  
  
At the back of the premises was a large maintenance garage. Spock had not noticed it initially, as he’d arrived from the opposite side of the road. The expansive door was slid upwards, tucked into the ceiling of the building.  
  
A vivid yellow vehicle was parked inside, boxy and wide in design. It was a highly illogical mode of transport in terms of energy usage – but somehow the garishly cheerful car was oddly appealing to Spock.  
  
 _I’ve been waiting so long, to be where I’m going – in the sunshine of your love_.  
  
Spock approached the garage in a level gait, his eyes narrowed. He craned his neck in search of assistance.  
  
When a figure leapt from behind the yellow automobile and landed squarely on the roof with a metallic  _badump_ , Spock nearly tripped over his own feet. Had his Vulcan equilibrium not been so innately balanced, it would have been a rather disconcerting display.  
  
Spock realised he was fortunate, in that the man – no, adolescent – on the automobile had taken no notice of him. In fact, he seemed rather consumed in –  
  
 _I’m with you my love – the light’s shining through on you_.  
  
Spock cocked his head and warily approached. Was it possible this Human was having some sort of epileptic fit? No, the actions were too controlled. The young man appeared lucid as he lightly hopped onto the hood.  
  
The Human slid to his knees with eyes clamped shut. He vehemently mouthed the words to the song, which appeared to utterly consume his energy. He also seemed to be vigorously strumming an instrument over his abdomen, despite the fact that there was no such musical apparatus on his person. Perhaps this Human was not entirely sound.  
  
 _Yes, I’m with you my love – it’s the morning and just we two_.  
  
Spock stood a mere three point two feet from the wide, metal bumper of the automobile. He scrutinised the young man’s dishevelled appearance. The Human appeared his age, or perhaps younger. Shaggy, blond hair with no true style fell across his eyelids and splayed into the air, as he nodded his head to the insistent beat. The simple white t-shirt exposed deeply tanned forearms, and Spock was dubious if those ripped jeans had  _ever_  been washed.  
  
Then his eyes snapped open.  
  
Spock found himself trapped in a cave of icy crystalline blue, so akin to holos of Delta Vega. Never had Spock encountered such a startling shade of the colour. He attributed his minor feeling of surprise to growing up on Vulcan, and rarely coming across an alien with anything but dark eyes. Brown seemed so utterly dull in comparison to the vibrant pigmentation of this Human.  
  
A brief flicker of acknowledgement passed between them; then a flash of white, straight teeth from the tan stranger.  
  
The greeting Spock had prepared died upon his lips as the Human dropped from his knees, down on all fours and crawled towards him. The moment of recognition between them had lasted mere seconds, but it appeared that this person was not planning on conversing until his song had completed.  
  
Those extraordinary eyes fixed upon him, so candid and stark that Spock nearly took a step back. Now the boy did not mouth the advancing lyrics, but sang around the grin that had stapled itself upon his face; his voice raspy and not unpleasant.  
  
“ _I’ll stay with you darling now – I’ll stay with you ‘til my seas have dried up_!”  
  
Spock blinked hard against the image of  _this_  – this bold miscreant, serenading him with a guileless smile and a smear of grease across his cheek. Coming to this planet, Spock had acknowledged the emotive and tactile tendencies of Humans. But this was a preposterous display, and – Spock begrudgingly admitted – interesting.  
  
“ _I’ve been waiting so long, to be where I’m goin’ – in the sunshine of your love_!”  
  
The blond leaned back on his heels once more and returned to his earlier mime of what Spock could tentatively assume was guitar playing. Their gazes remained rapt upon each other; Spock, with mingled curiosity and horror, the other boy with –  _madness_? Spock could not begin to fathom.  
  
Spock stood stock-still. His every sense grappled with this emotive Human. One who gyrated his hips in time to the music and continued to belt out the refrain with a coy curl of lips.  
  
“ _I’ve been waiting so long, to be where I’m goin’ – in the sunshine of your love_!”  
  
The lyrics repeated from that point on, which appeared to satisfy the stranger. He hopped off the hood and lazily sauntered to a workbench, where an antiquated radio sat. He deftly flicked a dial, and they were plunged into silence.  
  
Spock stared, unblinking, as the  _ta’al_  approached him.  
  
The young man ambled forward, a half-smile on his face, a single shallow dimple in his left cheek. And his hand was held up in a perfect  _V_.  
  
 _Fascinating_.  
  
Spock replied in kind, his joints feeling unnaturally rigid.  
  
The Human dropped his hand and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. He looked up at Spock, and the Vulcan calculated in the recess of his mind that this person was five point seven inches shorter than himself. With the current close proximity of their bodies, the Human had to crane his neck to meet Spock’s gaze.  
  
“Well hey there, stranger. Looks like you’re a long way from home. I’m Jim – Jim Kirk.”  
  
Spock considered Jim Kirk’s observation. In some way he understood that he could consider Earth as a home, just as he could consider Vulcan as such. And yet, neither felt... _right_. It was an illogical snag of emotion, and was promptly ripped away.  
  
“I am Spock.”  
  
Jim gave Spock a single, appraising once-over. His smile remained. “Hi, Spock. What can I do for ya? Unless you just came for the show – I can provide an encore, if you like.”  
  
“Your musical display was... enlightening to your species,” Spock concluded, and clasped his hands behind his back. “But a repeat performance is unnecessary.”  
  
“I wouldn’t compare me to the rest of my species, if I were you. I’m an anomaly.”  
  
“In what way?”  
  
Jim ran his tongue over his top teeth and cocked a hip. “Can’t you tell? You’ll never meet another guy like me.”  
  
Spock repressed the frown that dared to tug at his lips. He canted his chin slightly. “Your reply fails to answer my –”  
  
“So, I’m guessing you’re here for business and not pleasure?” Jim scratched at the dusting of stubble on his chin as he spoke. “Got something that needs to be fixed? Lemme guess – a black, nineteen seventy-one Oldsmobile 442? Probably sounds like a dying bison or a pissy Hendgrauggi.”  
  
There were too many aspects of this person and this conversation, which were entirely confounding.  
  
First abnormality: Jim professed some unnamed form of genetic irregularity, which differentiated himself from other members of his species. He was, what one might consider, aesthetically pleasing – but aside from the uncommon colouration of his irises, there was no visible difference between him and another Human. Perhaps he lacked the height of an average male in his adolescence, but that was not out of the ordinary.  
  
Second abnormality: Jim had not seen his vehicle, and yet proclaimed the correct make and model. Spock was one-hundred percent positive that this young man had not seen the automobile. Perhaps he had heard its arrival, but even that did not explain his knowledge of the colour.  
  
Third and final abnormality: Spock could not begin to postulate the human’s knowledge of Delta Vega. Specifically, the Hendgrauggi creature that roamed the planet’s icy plains. Delta Vega was studied only by those who lived near the icy planet, and by certain scholars and students of Starfleet. It seemed unlikely that this Human was an enthusiast of Vulcan’s solar system, so Spock would discount the option of his knowledge stemming from a personal interest.  
  
The circumstances were all slightly vexing.  
  
“How were you able to discern my mode of transport?”  
  
There were several more questions that threatened to break through Spock’s control, but he would not have it.  
  
Jim’s grin remained – he appeared to smile more than the average Human. “It’s not a great mystery. Small town – people talk and I listen. There’s only person ‘round these parts even vaguely related to a Vulcan, and that’s Anna Grayson-Wood. And I happen to know for a fact that they’ve got a sweet cherry of a two-seater just waiting for my hands. Who else would they lend it to, but their little nephew?”  
  
Aside from Spock being regarded as ‘little’ – especially when taking into consideration Jim’s stature of approximately five feet and nine inches, and his own of six feet and two inches – the logic was sound. “Indeed. I will reside with my aunt and uncle for the next nine weeks and six days.”  
  
“Cool. I’ll show you around sometime. We’ll have some laughs.”  
  
Appalled by the thought that he might lose control enough to laugh, Spock was unable to reject Jim’s offer. No, it had not been an offer – akin to an order.  
  
Before Spock could formulate a proper response, Jim was in motion. The young man seemed to burn with energy.  
  
Jim headed in the direction of the main building. “The car ‘round front?”  
  
Spock caught up with him in a few long strides. He did not see the point in replying – where else would his vehicle be?  
  
The mechanic did not seem to mind the silence. He picked up conversation easily, as they approached the Oldsmobile. “So, how d’you like this dump so far?”  
  
Jim stared appreciatively – almost lovingly – at the automobile in question, before he popped the hood and stuck in his head.  
  
Spock watched sure, strong fingers skim lightly over the foreign nodules and gaskets. For someone so apparently young, the Human seemed well-versed in mechanics. Jim’s slick, greasy hands were confident and able... Spock shook off the notion.  
  
“There is much to learn here. Your state is fascinating.”  
  
Jim grunted, and bent further to meddle with the interior. Spock found that his gaze had drifted to the bronze stripe of skin exposed at the small of Jim’s back, between the lift of his shirt and low-slung jeans. To Spock’s sudden horror, he realised he hadn’t heard a word Jim had just said.  
  
“Pardon me?”  
  
“Nothin’.” Jim’s smile was evident in his voice.  
  
There was a long moment of silence, in which Jim murmured to himself – or, illogically, to the car – and Spock stood to the side. Spock bit back a small scowl as he stared at Jim’s bent form.  
  
Spock found the question spurting forth before he could contain himself. “How do you know of the Hendgrauggi?” He could not let that go.  
  
Jim’s voice was muffled. “Animal Planet.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Jim unearthed himself from beneath the hood. The dimple was still evident in his tan cheek, and his eyes were laughing. “Animal Planet – it’s a TV channel? There was a late-night special on the Vulcan System.” At Spock’s blank look, Jim cocked his head. “Do Vulcans even  _have_  TV?”  
  
Spock bristled. “We do not, but that does not mean I am unaware of television. I was merely interested in how you came upon the knowledge.”  
  
“You learn a lot when you don’t sleep,” Jim said lightly.  
  
Spock frowned – he did not require more than four hours repose for full rejuvenation, but he understood that Humans needed double that amount.  
  
Jim got down on his knees and peered beneath the bumper. Without apparent concern for the state of his clothing, Jim rolled onto his back, against the dusty earth, and slithered beneath the vehicle. It occurred to Spock that it would have been much easier to do this check-up in the main garage, but he was not about to begin giving commands.  
  
“Transmission’s shot,” Jim said from beneath the automobile.  
  
Spock stared at the bulky black boots that stuck out from beneath the bumper. He easily identified the old, Starfleet issue shoes. They were certainly not originally Jim Kirk’s boots. They looked too large for him.  
  
“You, Mr. Spock, are leaking.”  
  
A single brow winged out. “I am certainly not.”  
  
Jim laughed and shimmied out from beneath the car. He squinted up at Spock, shadowing his eyes with one hand. The other palm reached out, expectantly awaiting help up.  
  
Spock refused to acknowledge his own surprise. Surely Jim understood what he was offering, as only minutes ago he had used a Vulcan greeting. Yet those sooty fingers were held out so casually to him – daring him.  
  
No one could ever be aware this happened, Spock assured himself. And perhaps Jim Kirk did not fully comprehend the sensitivity of Vulcan hands. This was possible. Before further thought could be put into the action, Spock leaned forward and firmly clasped Jim’s hand. A spark of something like victory snapped in those electric eyes.  
  
 _Mischief_  –  _curiosity_  –  _craving_.  
  
Jim’s palm was slick and cool; calloused fingertips grazed the soft flesh of Spock’s hand. There was no superfluous movement between their hands, and Spock fought to keep his fingers still as possible. But as Jim hefted himself up, their palms inevitably pressed against each other’s in a lover’s kiss.  
  
Spock’s  _first kiss_. And it had felt... enthralling.  
  
Their hands were parted within seconds, and Jim was looking over his shoulder to dust off the back of his jeans. His bare arms, once slick with a thin sheen of summer sweat, were coated with dirt and flecks of earth. There was dust in Jim’s hair, and the smudge on his cheek remained.  
  
The aplomb in which Jim wore his grime left Spock torn between distaste and amusement. Spock chose distaste. Simply because he was shocked with himself for touching Jim so inappropriately, and because Jim did not appear concerned over what had just occurred. Spock was admittedly irked by his nonchalance.  
  
Jim slammed down the hood and turned to Spock. “You’re lookin’ at a complete transmission change here. Not a particularly difficult repair, but we don’t have the parts for your make and model. I’m guessin’ you’ll have to wait some three to five days before the order comes in.”  
  
“You are certain you do not have the part?” Spock was not fond of driving such an unstable vehicle.  
  
That white flash of teeth again, as Jim pointed to his temple. “I  _know_. I know every piece of this place, down to the last screw.” Jim gestured with a wave of his hand that Spock should follow him into the main building. He rounded the counter and began digging behind it. “Vulcans have eidetic memories, don’t they?”  
  
Spock did not know why he felt surprised by the use of the term, or the knowledge that trailed in its wake. He allowed a small rise of his eyebrow. “Indeed.”  
  
“ _Mmm_ , that’s what I thought.” Jim brought up a PADD and began scrolling and scribbling haphazardly across the screen. His hair fell into his eyes as he lowered his head, shadowing his intent expression. Then he looked up and caught Spock’s gaze. “Okey-doke, that’s ordered. You wanna put in your name and number for me – right there. I’ll let you know when it arrives.”  
  
Spock carefully took the PADD and inserted the relevant information, and then handed it back. Jim glanced down at the screen, the corner of his lips quirking. “See, already got your number and we’ve known each other – what – twenty minutes or something?”  
  
“Twenty-two minutes. You require my phone number to notify me of the arrival of the replacement transmission.”  
  
Jim rubbed the back of his hand over his nose and smeared grease across the lightly freckled bridge. He did not look perturbed by Spock’s reply. He merely grinned and leaned over the counter, elbows propped on the surface. Jim looked up at him, and Spock wondered if he had something in his eye that was making him flutter those long, dusky lashes.  
  
“So you should be fine to drive, as long as you don’t go over thirty-five. Which, in Iowa, is like a crime in and of itself. But don’t let the seventy-milers hassle you or anything. If you push your baby too far, she’ll break.”  
  
Spock blinked. “She? Who –“  
  
Jim snorted a laugh. “The car, Spock, the car.”  
  
Spock stood still and straight against a wave of disorientation. It was only his second day in Iowa, and Jim was essentially the first person he had officially met outside of his extended family. This tactile, vocal, first-kiss stealing –  
  
Spock inhaled placidly. He would not allow himself to become overtly overwhelmed. He recalled his Terran manners.  
  
“Thank you for your services, Mr. Kirk. I will appreciate your call.”  
  
Jim looked blank for a moment. Then he straightened and sent Spock a playful salute. “Not a problem. See ya around, Spock.”  
  
Even as Spock retreated to his car without another word, he found his thoughts gravitating around the boy from Iowa who knew too much.


	2. Chapter 2

The residents of Iowa enjoyed plaid.  
  
This was Spock’s conclusion as he exited the first department store he had encountered. He had found himself facing busy aisles of plaid, jeans and boots. That was acceptable; Spock was not particular about his clothing. Although, there had been one accessory that puzzled him.  
  
Duck-billed hats that made claims such as: ‘ _I Don’t Break for Hippies_ ’ and ‘ _Your Girlfriend is Great in Bed_ ’.  
  
Spock was hopeful these opinions were not shared by the entire population of Sioux City. He did not know what a hippy was, but it seemed incredibly rude to insinuate they would be struck by an automobile or other form of transport.  
  
Sioux City was a bustling town where the inhabitants and visitors appeared to mind their own business. Spock could appreciate this, as he was in town for that specific reason – to acclimate. He had arrived on Earth with only his Vulcan garments and, after one day, had quickly come to realise that the ethnocentric stares and whispers he received due to his style of dress caused more trouble than he was comfortable with.  
  
So his aunt had given him directions to the nearest large town, and Spock had opted for a quick shuttle-ride over the use of his malfunctioning automobile. He did not find the vehicle trustworthy enough to operate until Jim Kirk repaired the extensive damage.  
  
Shopping was an excessively frivolous and illogical pastime when the action revolved around purchasing useless items. In this scenario, Spock felt it necessary that he fit in with this half of his culture; he had done the same on Vulcan, and he would do so here.  
  
He had, essentially, walked in and grabbed the first few garments that appeared as if they would fit him, purchased his items, and prepared to immediately head home.  
  
As Spock approached the shuttle-bay, he puzzled over the reaction the cashier had expressed when he had purchased thick, long-sleeved flannel shirts in the summer of July. Had he bought something inappropriate? Well, that was of no concern to him; perhaps it had simply been his Vulcan features which caused her alarm.  
  
The next shuttle was set to arrive in thirty-six minutes. Spock deliberated between waiting at the designated stop for the remainder of time, and venturing into the establishment behind him. He chose the latter, simply because the oncoming dusk brought a chill to his skin.  
  
Spock’s arrival to the tiny bar was announced by the rusty creak of the swinging door upon its hinge. The lighting was dim, and a veil of smoke hung in the air like mist. Figures hunched over their drinks, both in groups and alone. No one spoke above a murmur.  
  
With a slight nod to the bartender, Spock chose a stool at the long counter and settled his bags at his feet. He ordered a cranberry juice, which gleaned an imploring look from the proprietor. Spock’s raised eyebrow had been enough incentive to keep the man quiet and leave him in peace. Spock would be grateful to wear Human garments tomorrow; he attracted more attention than was necessary with both his clothing and his mannerisms.  
  
Spock sat for approximately two minutes as he stared into the vibrant swirl of liquid within his glass and allowed his normally trained thoughts to drift. All too soon, however, a familiar lazy tenor pricked at his ears.  
  
It caught Spock by surprise that a single utterance should cut so cleanly through his guard. One of the first practices a Vulcan mastered was muting the background noise of one’s environment – but this murmur was entirely distracting. It was the only voice on the entire planet that Spock could instantly recognise.  
  
Jim Kirk.  
  
Spock did not turn in his seat in search of the Human. What Jim had said yesterday about himself was accurate for Spock, as well. People spoke, and he listened. So, Spock shifted in his seat, his head cocked to the left, and did exactly that.  
  
Jim’s voice did not carry the same warmth or levity of youth as with their first interaction. It was cool, level, practiced – and slightly amused.  
  
“Sorry, ladies – my three kings totally molest your two-pair.”  
  
There was a clatter and a scrape of several objects as they dragged across the table. Jim’s voice perked up once more. “’Nother round? Or do you wanna save some dough to feed your kids this week? I don’t give a flyin’ fuck either way.”  
  
“Don’t you fuckin’ talk about me family, Kirk. You’re a kid yourself – still be suckin’ on your mama’s teat if she were around long enough.”  
  
Jim’s voice was steely; a lytherette wire strung tight. “Yeah, well at least this kid’s mom wasn’t married to her cousin. Tell me, Rick – should we discuss the genetic origins of your extra toe, or should we just shut up and play?”  
  
After twenty-seven seconds of silence, several grunts of assent followed.  
  
Spock could no longer keep his curiosity at bay – his father had always told him that his insistent thirst for knowledge was both his greatest strength and weakness. Spock shifted in his seat, just enough to inconspicuously monitor the activity.  
  
Jim was seated at a circular table in the far corner of the room, where three hunched men completed the ring of play. They were, indeed, engaging in some Terran game. One man swiftly shuffled a deck of cards and dealt them out with a practiced hand.  
  
All the while, Jim made a display of counting his large pile of coloured plastic discs. He appeared to be in position of seventy-one percent of the discs at the table – the remainder was spread between the three older Humans.  
  
When each man was dealt five cards, the game began. Jim slouched back in his chair – his spine arced as skinny legs spread akimbo beneath the table – and his head lolled to the side in apparent disregard for the game. He did not appear overtly concerned whether he won or lost.  
  
Spock watched as sharply as he could from his awkward position. Discs were thrown into the centre of the table and cards were exchanged from the slightly tattered deck.  
  
It did not take long for Spock to puzzle out the most basic regulations of the recreation. This was a game of wagers, entirely dependent on the configuration and rank of cards which a player was dealt. The play proceeded to the left, and each player made a bet with their discs.  
  
While the outcome was greatly weighted on what humans called luck, the final victory revolved around probability and psychology.  
  
The only problem was Jim. He won every round.  
  
Logically that should not be possible, unless under the most unusual of circumstances. To win so often and so confidently, one would either have to possess powerful psychic skills to anticipate the coming cards – or possess a distinctly numerical, genius-level intellect, keenly adjusted to counting and recalling cards as they exchanged hands.  
  
Once Spock arrived to that conclusion, a new realisation dawned on him: not only was Jim cognisant of every card at the table, but he appeared to watch the players’ expressions as keenly as he did the deck.  
  
From beneath his hooded gaze, Jim’s eyes flickered from one man’s face to the next, and then landed on the deck as further cards were dealt. He made no undue movements and gave away nothing but indifference.  
  
But behind that veil of ignorance, Spock perceived a carefully crafted plan of action. Jim was a tactician of cards. Of this, there was no doubt.  
  
A safe hypothesis – however personally unbelievable – was that Jim Kirk was some sort of prodigy.  
  
 _Peculiar_.  
  
“You little cheat,” hissed the man called Rick, with whom Jim had previously been verbally sparring.  
  
“How so?” Jim said glibly, as he scraped a few more discs towards him.  
  
“I don’t know, but no kid can win this many times in a row. Not even a whiz-kid.”  
  
“Useful information – if you were playing a kid.”  
  
“ _Please_ , I got underwear older’n you.”  
  
“Now that’s a visual I didn’t need, but thanks anyway.”  
  
Rick leaned in, his lip curled in disgust. “You think you’re real clever, dontcha, Kirk?”  
  
Jim jerked a shoulder and began neatly stacking his discs in order of colour. “Don’t really _think_  I am.  _Know_  I am would probably be a more accurate statement.”  
  
Spock frowned and turned completely in his seat. He was curious why Jim appeared to be purposely evoking an emotional response from the man. There was a clear height, weight and muscle difference between the two of them. If an altercation were to occur, Jim’s chances of victory were low.  
  
All three men at the table appeared tense. They laid down their cards, and their chairs squealed against the scarred floor as they scooted back and stood.  
  
Jim merely stared up with large, guileless eyes, as Rick cracked his knuckles.  
  
“Then you should know that we don’t take kindly to cheaters ‘round these parts.”  
  
Jim’s smile was wide and sharp. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, ladies. There’s no need to be sore losers. Just suck it up and pay.”  
  
When Rick dove for Jim, Spock was mildly impressed at the speed which Jim flung himself from his chair. Discs coloured the air like confetti, then scattered across the floor like causalities of the oncoming war.  
  
“You little  _sonofabitch_  – I’ll wipe that shit-eating grin right off your face!”  
  
The scene unfolded almost faster than Spock’s heightened senses could acknowledge. Jim evaded several lunges at his person, and interspersed his deflections with several short jabs, kicks to the stomach and wily thrown elbows. But, as Spock had previously concluded, his shorter stature and sly manoeuvres were not enough to claim victory in this altercation.  
  
Rick yanked Jim by the hair and planted a solid fist to his temple. The weight of the impact was enough to send Jim spinning on his heel – the momentum turned him and sent his face slamming into a mute jukebox.  
  
The  _crack_  brought Spock to his feet. He was across the room in four seconds – and in twelve seconds more, the first man collapsed under the pressure of an icily executed nerve-pinch. Sixteen seconds further and the second assailant slumped across a table.  
  
Rick had little time to defend himself when Spock bunched his fingers into his hair in a mirror of what he had done to Jim, and slammed his forehead against the table with a resounding  _thud_. It was only logical that the man experience the same pain he had inflicted on Jim.  
  
 _Jim_.  
  
He was on the floor, slumped against the side of the jukebox. His head was in his palms as he groaned quietly. Red, alien blood trickled between the fingers of one hand, and travelled in thin streams down his wrist.  
  
Spock crouched before him and placed a tentative hand on Kirk’s knee. Spock was cognisant of the bartender approaching, as well as the small crowd which had gathered around them during the altercation.  
  
“Jim.” Spock sought out his attention in a monotone. “I believe it is within our best interests to vacate the premises with haste.”  
  
Jim’s hands flopped listlessly to his lap. He blinked owlishly at Spock, as if meeting him for the first time. Spock dispassionately reviewed the damage inflicted to Jim’s face.  
  
The corner of his lip was split, as was the tip of his eyebrow, which streamed blood. Spock was not particularly alarmed, as head-wounds bled profusely, even with minor injuries.  
  
Jim nodded vaguely and huffed out a shaky breath. “Good plan.” He reached out and placed a hand on Spock’s shoulder, using him for leverage as he hefted himself up with surprising dexterity for someone in his condition.  
  
The proprietor of the establishment was already bellowing, “That’s the last straw, Kirk – get the fuck out of here! I don’t wanna see hide nor hair of you again. More trouble’n you’re worth kid – more trouble than you’re worth.”  
  
“ _Relax_ ,” Jim said, and brushed off the helping arm that Spock offered. “Take my winnings as compensation, okay? I’m sick of this dump, anyway.”  
  
Jim turned on his heel – although he may have wavered for a moment – and strode out of the bar. Spock pondered leaving him to his own devices, but quickly decided that his mechanic might need some assistance in getting home safely. Spock ignored the groans of the awakening assailants, as he grabbed his shopping bag and made his exit.  
  
Spock frowned against the bloody, russet rays of the setting sun. Jim was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot or at the bus stop. Spock surveyed the area and finally, a bizarre spark of static sounded from his left. He looked over his shoulder and immediately recognised the pair of over-sized, ill-fitted Starfleet boots peeking out from beneath the bumper of an antiquated vehicle.  
  
Once more, inquisitiveness tugged at him like a leash. Spock approached slowly, as another sizzle of electricity crackled from beneath the automobile, followed by a muted grunt of pain.  
  
Spock cleared his throat. “May I inquire as to the purpose of your current actions?”  
  
He would have liked to further inquire into the entire scene which had played out moments before, but it was not his business.  
  
Jim’s feet twitched in apparent surprise at the company, but he did not reply. Instead, he slipped out from beneath the bumper and swept past Spock without a second look. Jim rounded the driver’s side and shoved his arm in the dubiously thin gap of the partially open window. His tongue idly swept across his swollen lip as he stretched his fingers further – and finally caught the nub of the lock, pulling it up with a victorious  _click_.  
  
Spock canted his head slightly, as both brows gravitated sky-high out of their own volition. Jim opened the car door with a look of triumph on his bloodied face.  
  
He finally turned to Spock and raised his eyebrows in a similar fashion – only his expression was rather expectant. “Coming? I don’t feel like the shuttle.”  
  
“Is this your vehicle?” Spock did not know why he formed the inquiry. Perhaps this was what desperate hope felt like.  
  
Jim laughed airily, his bright eyes dragging towards the establishment entrance. “Rick’s. It’s fine – he needs to shake off a few pounds with a walk. You gettin’ in or not? I don’t have all day.”  
  
Spock was somewhat taken aback by the abrupt manner in which he was being addressed. It was most unbecoming, but not entirely surprising, considering the source.  
  
“Theft is a morally reprehensible act.”  
  
“Sing it to the choir.”  
  
Spock was certainly not going to sing anything to anyone. That aside, it appeared that Jim would be utilising his newly acquired vehicle with or without him.  
  
“Perhaps I should drive.” Spock inwardly gaped at his suggestion. “You are not well.”  
  
Jim opened his mouth and wiggled his jaw. He shrugged and swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. Crimson smeared across his temple and into his dishevelled hair. “I’ve had worse.”  
  
Spock flicked a brow. “Doubtless. Blood is running into your eye. It would be prudent to remain as safe as possible.”  
  
A long-winded sigh was Jim’s reply. “Whatever you say, Safety Spock.”  
  
Jim swung open the driver’s door and launched himself through it and onto the passenger’s seat. Spock followed and closed the door behind him. He immediately buckled his seatbelt.  
  
“How do I –”  
  
Jim was already leaning over Spock’s lap, where he cracked open the dashboard with the expertise that Spock had utilised a nerve pinch. A panel of wires were exposed, and Jim’s lips thinned in concentration as he fiddled with the webbing of colour.  
  
He smelled like iron and sun and something indefinably sweet.  
  
A spark brought the car sputtering to life and crashed Spock’s thoughts back to reality. His mouth weighted in a frown as he watched Jim replace the dashboard, and lean back with a lopsided grin on his bruised lips.  
  
“You know how to drive this thing?”  
  
Spock might have been insulted had he not known better. “It cannot be difficult.”  
  
And it was not.  
  
Spock needed little instruction to reach Jim’s home. There were few roads, and even fewer farms and houses along this stretch of town. It appeared that Spock lived no more than four point two miles from the Kirk Farm; although that was the hypotenuse of space, and it would take longer to reach his current residence by road.  
  
The sunset was a pleasant gold and rust that reminded Spock of Vulcan. He pulled up the gravel driveway to the main house and parked the car. Jim had been mostly quiet throughout the trip, and Spock was content with that. He postulated that he would never grow accustomed to the Human imperative to fill silence.  
  
The moment Spock turned off the engine, Jim’s voice cut through the stillness. “Okay, well thanks for the ride and stuff. You’re really gonna have to teach me how to drop dudes like flies sometime. Very cool trick. Oh, and don’t worry about the car – I’ll take care of it. You just drive it home and it’ll be gone by morning.” Jim paused. “See ya.”  
  
Jim was nearly out the door, when Spock found himself calling out. “You will need first aid.”  
  
Jim sat back in his seat, one leg out the door, as he twisted Spock’s way. Those curiously-blue eyes peered at him with what Spock could only categorise as suspicion and disbelief.  
  
“Yeah? Well,” Jim ran his palm gingerly along the line of his jaw, “I can do it on my own.”  
  
“It would be more efficient if you allowed me to help. I am trained in advanced first aid if you are concer–”  
  
“Spock.” Jim’s lips curved, and it looked like a painful and unnecessary action. “Does it look like I’m worried? I appreciate the offer and all, but I can take care of myself.”  
  
Spock could not understand why he was forcing himself upon Jim. He only knew that when he saw the fresh injuries on Jim’s face, his stomach tightened in a fist. But he remained silent as Jim exited the vehicle.  
  
The moment Jim swayed and leaned upon the hood, Spock was out of his seat and rounding the front of the automobile. He firmly clasped Jim’s forearms and frowned down at him.  
  
“You are unable to walk without support.”  
  
“Fuck if I can’t,” Jim said, futilely attempting to jerk away from Spock’s grasp.  
  
Spock’s gaze sharpened on Jim’s face. One of Jim’s pupils was slightly larger than the other.  
  
“You have a minor concussion,” Spock said flatly.  
  
“Shit happens.”  
  
“Apparently. Come inside.” Spock was already leading Jim by the arm to the front door. This person was particularly careless with himself, even for a Human. Not only did he seem to enjoy placing himself in harmful situations, but refused aid when it was offered. It was as if he crafted dangerous scenarios for himself.  
  
Jim did not argue as he pinched the bridge of his nose and allowed himself to be led. “You’re a bossy bastard, know that?”  
  
“You are entitled to your opinion.”  
  
Jim snorted a laugh and leaned on the front door, where it swung inward without the use of a key. The darkened hall echoed with clumsy footsteps.  
  
“Frank’s not home,” Jim said, as he kicked off his boots in the middle of the corridor.  
  
Spock followed Jim’s wavering lead to the kitchen. “Who is Frank?”  
  
“Cocksucker.”  
  
Spock blinked back his surprise at the use of profanity. From what he gathered of Jim Kirk thus far, he littered his sentences with obscenities, and clouded his intelligence with colloquialisms and a stubborn spark in his eyes. It was most perplexing.  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“First aid box is above the sink, Nurse Spock.” Jim dragged a chair out and flopped down, his legs splayed wide as he slouched back.  
  
Spock flicked a glance at the bronzed skin of Jim’s knee that peeked out from his ripped jeans. He turned on his heel and searched out said box with efficiency, and placed it on the scarred kitchen table. He sat down across from Jim and inspected his wounds with a discerning eye.  
  
Jim stared back. Spock cleared his throat. “We must first clean your wounds if we are to disinfect them.”  
  
“Yeah, I know the drill. Washcloth is over there.” Jim gestured vaguely to the sink.  
  
Spock got up once more, wet a towel beneath the antiquated sink and returned to his place before Jim. Without conversation, he reached forward and placed the tip of the soaked cloth to Jim’s mouth. Jim flinched, but made no sound as his gaze remained fixed on Spock’s face. Spock concentrated on that blood-stained bottom lip, rather than those disconcerting eyes.  
  
The curve of Jim’s mouth was fascinating. It looked soft and pink, even with the swollen cut in the right corner. The classically feminine vulnerability of Jim’s lips was so at odds with the sharp line of his jaw and the jutting chin. Such an intriguing combination of features – Spock had seen Vulcan women less beautiful than Jim.  
  
Spock inwardly shook himself out of his uncharacteristically disordered thoughts. Schooling his face, he fixed upon Jim’s eyes once more. One pupil remained point five of a millimetre larger than the other, but the intensity of the stare was not lacking. Spock swallowed and silently finished cleaning Jim’s wounds without further delay.  
  
Jim was the first to crack the silence, as Spock took out the antibiotic. “So, why are you really doing this?”  
  
“Would you clarify your meaning?” Spock squeezed some salve onto a cotton ball and dabbed at Jim’s brow.  
  
“Playing nurse. You get off on that kinda stuff?”  
  
Spock did not know how to reply to that, so he did not. He diverted his attention to placing a square of gauze upon the gash on Jim’s forehead. Humouring the illogical assumptions of his mechanic was irrelevant to the situation at hand.  
  
The soft, white edge of the bandage was stark against Jim’s tan skin. As Spock smoothed a corner down, the pad of his middle finger brushed Jim’s temple.  
  
 _Curiosity_  – _comfort_  –  _craving_  –  _caution_.  
  
Craving –  _lust_. Again, Spock experienced the foreign emotion from a distance, and peered at it like an object crunched beneath a microscope. He felt an urge to dissect it, prod it – question it.  
  
That was twice Spock had encountered the curious rise of pleasure in his gut from the Human before him. Was Jim constantly in a state of lust? Spock had studied the Human reproductive system while on Vulcan; perhaps puberty was akin to a diluted, constant version of  _Pon farr_  for Human adolescents.  
  
The second possibility was that Jim Kirk felt a basic attraction for him. Spock calculated the probability to be low.  
  
Either way, Spock filed away the memory and sensory perceptions for further meditation.  
  
“Without the aid of a regenerator, you are mended to the best of my abilities.”  
  
Jim touched a few fingertips tentatively to his forehead. “You’re pretty handy. I should keep you around more often.”  
  
Spock felt his cheeks heat as he marvelled at how casually Humans conversed. They utilised their words with such abandon that they never meant anything, and it became their actions that took on extensive significance.  
  
On Vulcan, Spock’s experience had been that the spoken word expressed volumes, whereas actions were to be reserved and restrained unless necessary.  
  
Spock acknowledged that he would have to learn to take Humans with less gravity than his Vulcan peers, but he was unsure about his ability to effectively do so in the future.  
  
“I shall take my leave for the night.”  
  
Jim lurched from his seat, with that excess energy buzzing around him like an electric current. He shrugged and offered a miniscule smile, his swollen lip stretching slightly. “Sure. I’ll walk you out.”  
  
Spock could only nod as he was led from the kitchen. He stepped onto the front porch and turned towards the doorway.  
  
Jim leaned against the frame, with arms folded across his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. His quiet amusement was evident beneath the sharp relief of shadow and light across his features. Spock was clueless as to the cause of noted mirth, but that seemed to be a constant confusion for him at this point.  
  
A chorus of chirping song blanketed them in twilight melody. Spock frowned. “What is that noise?”  
  
Jim cocked his head to listen, as if he had not noticed.  
  
“It’s the year of the cicada. Annoying little bastards. Hundreds of ‘em appear every thirteen years –sometimes seventeen, but always a prime number. They sing and fuck and sing some more, and that lasts a couple of weeks until they croak.” Jim coughed a rough laugh. “Actually, that sounds pretty sweet.”  
  
Jim inhaled deeply, seeming to take in the pollen-dappled evening air. “Y’know, my mom used to tell me this story every time I got lazy in the summers – _The Cicada and the Ant_. It’s a story about a cicada that spends the entire summer singing while his friend, the ant, works diligently to collect food for the winter. Winter comes, and the cicada dies because he never prepared himself. He just thought he could mooch off the ant, but no dice.”  
  
Jim’s flash of teeth was dim in the growing shadows. “My mom always said I’d be that cicada.” Jim held up one hand and wiggled his fingers in a curiously playful version of a Human wave goodbye. “Well, enjoy the music while it lasts, Spock. G’night.”  
  
“Goodnight, Jim,” Spock said automatically, although a portion of his thoughts lingered on Jim’s open palm, and the memory of their first sloppy kiss.  
  
Then the door was shut quietly in his face, and Jim was gone.  
  
Spock remained standing beneath the light of the moon, pondering the thirteen-year cycle of music, mating, and death.


	3. Chapter 3

The laboured huffing of the Oldsmobile announced Spock’s arrival before the car actually pulled up around the back. Jim winced at the sound the poor thing was making – it was lucky the part had come in today, because that transmission was on its last leg.  
  
He’d commed Spock some fifteen minutes ago. Although the brief conversation had revolved solely on the cranky automobile in question, Jim couldn’t help but appreciate how fresh Spock managed to look through his comm on a sweltering summer afternoon.  
  
As Spock stepped gracefully from the car, Jim abandoned the open hood of another ride in need. He sauntered forward and grabbed a dirty cloth from his back pocket to wipe his oily hands.  
  
He noted with a curious spark of pleasure that Spock was wearing Terran clothes. How the hell Spock had managed to make blue flannel look like some gift to humanity was beyond him. Maybe it was just the way the sleeves were rolled up those long, pale forearms. Or the snug fit of the slim, black jeans slung across lean hips.  
  
 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Jim thought with an internal laugh. Out of all the aliens he’d encountered in this nowhere-town, Spock was, without a doubt, the sexiest. Why bother pretending? Life was too short.  
  
“Hey, Spock. Aren’t you hot?” He gestured with a wave of his soiled cloth at the Vulcan’s ensemble.  
  
Spock didn’t take a moment to consider. “No.”  
  
“I disagree,” Jim said seamlessly, with an easy grin. His battered lip complained, and he pressed the side of his knuckle against it for a moment. “So, thanks for yesterday and everything.” He stuffed his cloth in his back pocket as he spoke, already rounding the car to pop the hood and have a second look at the grimy, convoluted innards.  
  
Jim could hear keys jangling in Spock’s hand as he followed him to the hood. “It was logical to aid my mechanic, so that he may repair my vehicle as previously agreed.”  
  
“ _Mmm_...” Jim’s head was already stuffed under the hood. “So that’s the policy on aiding and abetting a juvenile delinquent as he jacks a car – right after you go ape-shit on three dudes you don’t even know? That’s kinda...”  _adorable_ , “deranged. Sure you’re a real Vulcan – or, er,  _half_  Vulcan?”  
  
Spock bristled. “Although your previous attitude was – and remains – insufferable, you did not instigate the physical altercation. Therefore, I had no issue with neutralising the situation.”  
  
“If by ‘ _neutralising_ ’, you mean ‘kicking ass and taking names’, then sure, okay.” Really, Spock should have let Jim get what he’d deserved in that bar – wouldn’t have been the first time. “And your equally shitty excuse for auto theft?”  
  
Jim wasn’t going to make this easy on Spock. Why should he? No one ever helped him without an ulterior motive.  
  
The math was easy: Smart Vulcan, plus exponentially Reckless Hick – over Uncharacteristically Helpful Favours from Smart Vulcan – equalled  _Expectations_.  
  
Just  _what_  was Spock expecting from him?  
  
“Vulcans do not make excuses. We have a reasonable explanation for all actions.”  
  
“Let’s hear it, then,” Jim said, as he continued to fiddle with the grease-stained mechanisms. He really didn’t need to – he’d only required a cursory glance inside to calculate the entirety of the damage inflicted on the vehicle. But it was fun to hear the Vulcan grasp at straws.  
  
Spock’s tone was drab. “You would have confiscated the vehicle regardless of whether I had been involved. Having taken your injuries into consideration, I reasoned that the most logical course of action would involve the utilisation of my navigational skills.”  
  
Jim slammed down the hood of the car. He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and turned to consider Spock. “Lesser of two evils, huh?”  
  
“Approximately.”  
  
With an utterance that fell between a sigh and a laugh, Jim shook his head and reached forward. He swiped Spock’s keys from his hand – the metal felt searing from the Vulcan’s grasp – and twirled it idly around his forefinger. “Well,  _whatever_. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when you get into shit for hanging around my –” Jim feigned quotations, “ _bad influence_.”  
  
He’d had enough of parents accusing him of corrupting their poor little babies. If they could be tainted in the first place, it usually meant that they were just as dissatisfied with their lives as Jim was, and were simply asking for trouble. They just happened to find it in the vicinity of Jim.  
  
But he sure as hell wasn’t keen on the idea of Vulcan parents coming down on him like the angry fist of Surak, or whatever.  
  
Did Surak get angry? No, Jim was pretty sure he didn’t.  _Pacifist bastard_.  
  
“My actions are my own,” Spock said tightly.  
  
Jim sent him a disbelieving roll of eyes. “Sure, they  _all_  say that in the beginning. Then it’s, ‘Oh, Jim made me set the barn on fire!’ and ‘I swear I was just an innocent virgin when I met him!’ and ‘Golly, I don’t know how those cows got tipped over!’ and –” An impish smile teased the corners of Jim’s lips, as he caught the stony eye of Spock. “Well, you get the picture.”  
  
“I believe I do.”  
  
Jim imagined he saw a glint of amusement in that unwavering gaze – or it could have just been the spark of the sun, refracting in amber.  
  
“Okey-doke – so I’m gonna get this baby right as rain in no time. “ Jim patted the hood of the car. “It’ll probably take an hour to fix, so you’ll just have to wait, I guess. Not much to do ‘round here.”  
  
Jim went to scratch his chin in thought, but he quickly recalled the lingering pain in his jaw from the previous night and dropped his hand. “If you’re not against the noise, you could join me in the garage. I think I have a book or two lying around that could hold your interest while I work.”  
  
Fuck if Jim knew why he was searching out the Vulcan’s company – they would hardly be able to speak over Jim’s drilling, anyway. But truth be told, he was kind of enjoying Spock. Sure, he was a bit snooty – but he was sexy too, and clever as hell.  
  
And it was kind of  _more_  than a little fun to tug at that thin veil of control.  
  
Speaking of control: Spock looked as if he were grasping for some.  
  
“Books?” Spock said hollowly.  
  
Jim smirked. “Uh, yeah.  _Books_. You know – those things people used to read, with words on pages. Sometimes boring, sometimes not?”  
  
Spock’s jaw clenched. “I am aware of what books are. For a moment I was merely –”  
  
“Surprised that I read?” Jim said.  
  
“I wrongly assumed printed text was essentially obsolete on your planet, with the exception of libraries.”  
  
Jim shrugged. “Mostly.”  
  
But there were a few hole-in-the-wall bookstores scattered around the state – and a person could buy  _anything_  online. Through both of these venues, Jim had built up a small collection. He had a penchant for the earthy, authentic feel of a book.  
  
Everything was so manufactured these days. Technology was impressive and all, but sometimes Jim thought people forgot what it felt like to be alive. To  _feel_.  
  
Without another word, Jim hopped into the car and jerked the ignition to life. Deciding that Spock could walk – it was only a few yards, after all – Jim steered the car carefully into the awaiting spot in the garage.  
  
Moments later, Jim was out of the vehicle and heading for a holey red satchel sitting on a tool bench. He could feel Spock peering over his shoulder as he rummaged through.  
  
Jim turned and slapped a thin, yellowed book against Spock’s chest. “Here, knock yourself out.”  
  
Spock’s hands came up quickly to grasp at the text, with his brows gravitating towards each other. “I would rather not.”  
  
Jim smiled wanly and jerked a thumb towards the seat beside the worktable. “Chair’s over there.”  
  
Heading towards the opposite end of the garage, Jim searched out his tools. Working with cars relaxed him. He didn’t have an affinity for engineering – repairs and shit weren’t challenging in the slightest, once you got past the basics. But it wasn’t bad to have a pastime that allowed Jim to clear his thoughts and zone out.  
  
True, his asshole of a step-dad wasn’t giving him any choice, working in this shit-hole. But the joke was on Frank, because Jim fucking enjoyed it.  
  
When Jim returned to the car, he noted with a smile that Spock was already deeply immersed in  _The Catcher in the Rye_. Jim had a notion that the main character would perplex the hell out of the Vulcan – Holden was all too human and flawed, and kind of an all-around jerk.  
  
Holden Caulfield also happened to be the first and only love of Jim Kirk’s life. Jim was interested to hear Spock’s take on him, if he got far enough through the book.  
  
Jim settled back on what was essentially an elongated skateboard and slid beneath the undercarriage of the car. He would normally blast his characteristic rock music as he worked, but he rather enjoyed the delicate whisper of turning pages from his periphery.  
  
It was kind of nice just knowing someone else was  _there_ , actually.  _Anybody_.  
  
Jim was a social creature, and living in the outskirts of any true cluster of civilisation took its toll on his painfully-low boredom threshold. The majority of the crazy shit he did was instigated by excruciating monotony.  
  
As for the remainder of Jim’s shenanigans – well, he had to have his fun.  
  
Jim worked in companionable silence; the heavy whirr of the drill the only definitive noise between him and Spock. His hands worked on auto-pilot, and his mind wove in and out of nothing imperative. Eventually the sound of pages turning stopped, and when Jim noticed, he slid from beneath the car. Glancing at the chronometer set high on the wall, he was surprised to find how quickly an hour had passed.  
  
Lurching up from the floor and dusting himself off, Jim’s gaze gravitated automatically to Spock.  
  
Spock was sitting patiently; spine straight, knees together, and  _The Catcher in the Rye_  lying upon his lap.  
  
Jim frowned. “You finished already?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“That was fast.”  
  
“I was supplied with adequate time to finish.”  
  
With an incline of his chin, Jim agreed. Most people wouldn’t be able to finish a book in such a short time frame – but obviously he and Spock were on the same page. So to speak.  
  
Jim paced to the cluttered workbench beside Spock and unceremoniously dropped his toolbox to the countertop. “What did you think of it?”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Jim spotted Spock fractionally tilting his head – computing.  
  
“The protagonist is a highly illogical being.”  
  
Jim snorted a laugh and turned to Spock. “Shock and awe – what a surprising conclusion for a Vulcan.” He leaned a hip against the edge of the worktop and folded his arms across his chest. “But please, enlighten me anyway.”  
  
Spock spoke evenly. “Mr. Caulfield’s public demeanour is incongruous with his psyche.”  
  
Jim laughed disbelievingly. “Uh,  _no_. Being a pathological liar doesn’t stop him from doing and saying what he wants.”  
  
“Incorrect.” Spock crossed his legs in a single fluid motion that wavered Jim’s attention. “His words and actions act as a psychological fortress between the adult world and his own innocence.”  
  
“Fuck that. He separates himself from society because no one can keep his pace. He’s too smart for ‘em. The lying just makes the boredom of his life tolerable.”  
  
Jim had never spoken with another soul about his literary interests – never cared to, as everyone around him were basically blithering idiots anyway. Despite their disagreement – no,  _because_  of it – Jim appreciated the stirring in his blood. It was the sensation of meeting a challenge head-on.  
  
Spock appeared bored, but the gentle inflection in his voice belied his enthusiasm. “You are only partially correct. He does indeed rely on fallacies in conversation. The flaw in your argument is that his hostile bitterness is derived from the necessity to protect his fragile and childlike psyche from the caustic mores of his culture, rather than him being a truly hardened character.”  
  
Smiling wanly to himself, Jim picked up a spare bolt from his worktop and tossed it casually in his palm. “In boondocks lingo, you’re saying he’s a punk-ass bitch who acts like a dick because the world is a mean and scary place?”  
  
“That is a colloquial, if not semi-accurate reiteration of my extrapolation.”  
  
“What a load of bullshit.” Jim chucked the bolt back onto the counter and pushed off, looking ahead as he said, “Holden Caulfield is a badass motherfucker. Broadcast it through the galaxy on all frequencies, in all languages forever and ever, amen.”  
  
“Your logic is astonishingly infallible,” Spock said dryly.  
  
Well, hell –looked like Vulcans could make a joke after all. Jim grinned to himself as he strode to a set of metal file cabinets. He opened one up, shoved his head in and began rummaging as he spoke. “I know, right? Anyway, your car’s fixed. Not good as new, but good as Jim Kirk – and that’s probably a hell of a lot better, if I do say so myself. And I do.”  
  
“You have my gratitude.”  
  
Jim popped up with a triumphant grin and a PADD in his hand. “Rather have your credits.” He pulled up Spock’s order and thrust the gadget under Spock’s nose. ”Sign here.”  
  
Spock made as if to stand – but when it became obvious that Jim wasn’t planning on retreating from his comfort zone, Spock’s look narrowed and he stood anyway. He placed the book on the seat behind him, took the PADD, and signed.  
  
When Spock had finished, Jim pursed his lips as he stared at the date on the electronic receipt. “Huh... is today the fourth of July?” He said, even as the date was staring at him in the face.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Jim blew a raspberry and cocked his head in thought. He stared candidly up at Spock. “You wanna go somewhere with me?”  
  
A stupidly-adorable vertical wrinkle dented the span between Spock’s brows. “Where is ‘somewhere’?”  
  
“A carnival. Today is America’s Independence Day, so there’ll be fireworks and stuff.” Jim imitated Spock’s current parade rest – only he clamped onto the PADD at the small of his back, and rocked impatiently on his heels. “It’s something to do. Better than sittin’ around and sweating.”  
  
Spock’s glance flicked to his shoes. “You wish me to accompany you?”  
  
“S’what I said.”  
  
“Very well.”  
  
“Cool.” Jim clapped his free hand none-too-gently on Spock’s shoulder. It didn’t even jostle the statue masquerading as a living, breathing Vulcan. “Well, we’re all set here. I think I have a shirt that doesn’t reek of gasoline and pastrami sandwich somewhere in my bag. Hold up a sec and I’ll change.”  
  
Jim was already tugging off his soiled top and exchanging it for a fresh one in black, when Spock spoke up behind him. “We are departing now?”  
  
“Well – yeah, now.” Jim turned and tugged the hem over his stomach. “You have other pressing  _engagements_  or some shit?”  
  
“No, I –” Spock said with a shadow of a frown. “Your request was simply... sudden. But I am prepared.”  
  
“Prepared?” Jim barked a laugh. “We’re not going sky-diving or anything, Spock. I’m not taking you out to elope in Vegas. It’s just a carnival – although the clowns might make you crap your pants.” Jim was already finding his way into the passenger’s seat of Spock’s car. “Ever seen a clown? Scary fuckers.”  
  
“I have not.” Spock followed suit and got behind the wheel. “But I am confident in assuming my reaction to them will not be the one you have described.”  
  
“Whatever,” Jim said cheerfully. He rolled down his window and slung an arm out the side, as Spock carefully reversed out of the garage. “All I know is that reason number fourteen I’m never going into space is, like – what if I discover a race of aliens with permanent clown faces or something? It could totally happen. I’d phaser the shit out of those freaks without a second thought. Prime Directive can suck it.”  
  
“Your imagination is astounding.”  
  
“Fuck off, I’m a total realist. You’ll eat your hat on the day Planet Clown-Face is discovered.”  
  
“Fortunately, I do not own hats.”  
  
“I’ll lend you one.”


	4. Chapter 4

The carnival was about girls in daisy-dukes, and boys in cowboy hats sneaking smokes behind candy-cane striped tents. It was about parents leading their tykes around – all of whom had some sort of sweets or ice cream to spill over their grubby little hands. It was about that indefinable, but undeniably cheerful music jangling on a manic loop, and balloons in the shape of poodle and giraffes, and a zoo of other animals in the form of face-painting and stuffed prizes.  
  
Even as a kid, Jim revelled in the chaos of the carnival. His mother would fuss and fret over losing him –  _Don’t you dare let go of my hand, Jimmy!_  – but in the end he always made his daring escape.  
  
She’d find him later; either puking up too many candy apples in the grass, or starting fights with kids too big for him or sneaking on rides when he didn’t have tickets. Either way, she always found him – but that never mattered. It was the  _escape_  that was such a blast.  
  
Right now, Jim was of a mind that Spock needed to have a good time. Could Vulcans even have a blast? Okay, anything within the range of, ‘ _I did not wish to stick my face in the funnel cake deep fryer_ ’ and ‘ _this has been an adequate encounter_ ’ would suit Jim well enough.  
  
Not that he  _cared_ , or anything – Spock could think whatever the hell he wanted. Jim didn’t need some Vulcan to tell him how awesome he was to hang around. That was old news.  
  
Anyway, they  _did_  end up having kind of a blast. To start off with, at least.  
  
They didn’t see any clowns, which was lucky. And although Spock seemed nervous at first – flinching at every other noise – he eventually loosened up and allowed Jim to tug him on rides, and coerce him to the game stalls. Turned out Spock had one hell of an aim – he rocked the phaser games and put Jim to shame when it came to the tribble toss.  
  
Jim was content to laugh and chat to Spock, even if the only reply he got most of the time was a creative use of eyebrows. That was just fine with him – he enjoyed talking to someone who listened, anyway. And Spock didn’t seem like he was going to head for the hills screaming any time soon, so Jim could only assume he was having a good time, too.  
  
Then Spock got lost.  
  
For fucks sake, how did a grown person even  _get_  lost in the first place? Okay, yeah – this was a foreign setting to Spock, but Jim  _did_  say he was only going to take a piss and he’d be right back. They were meant to meet at the banana stand, and that’s where Jim had left Spock. He sure as hell wasn’t there now.  
  
 _Awesome_. Go on a date with an alien – lose him after he’s been on the planet for three whole days.  
  
“Spock!” Jim pitched his voice above the majority of the crowd. He ignored any dirty looks tossed his way, as he wandered aimlessly through the throng.  
  
“Spock, if you can hear me, say something! Like, ‘I’m here’, or ‘affirmative’.” Jim paused for a split second, not giving Spock any time to reply. “We’ll play the Penis Game. Yell, ‘penis’!”  
  
Of course Spock wasn’t going to yell ‘penis’ if his life depended on it, but a guy could try. Lucky for Jim, it was at that moment that he heard a child pass with his mother:  
  
“– _funny eyebrows, Mommy_ –”  
  
The kid was clutching the string of a cherry red balloon.  
  
Jim made a dash for the balloon stand, and – sure enough, Spock was pressed against the garishly painted side. His hands were fisted, cheeks pallid, eyes drilling holes into nothing.  
  
“Spock?” Jim darted to Spock’s side. He grazed a hand down Spock’s arm and raked his gaze over that immobile face. “Hey – Spock. What’s the matter? Come on, spill it.”  
  
Spock literally wheezed and stared directly over Jim’s head. His voice was distant and strangled. “The crowd –”  
  
“Okay, yeah well, crowds can be a kinda crazy sometimes,” Jim said quickly. “For  _kids_ , though. You’re not a kid, not even close. I mean, no one’s bothering you now, are they? You’re cool. It’ll be fine, all right?”  
  
 _Fuck_  – Jim really had no idea what the hell to say under these circumstances. It wasn’t like he’d  _ever_  been scared of crowds or anything. Not even when he was a kid. He definitely couldn’t relate. But this was Spock – and Jim was, like, the only person he knew on the _planet_. So, he had to try.  
  
Jim kept a hand firmly cuffed around Spock’s forearm. The flannel against his palm was hot, like clothes straight from the dryer, and he could feel the tension bunched in Spock’s triceps. Spock’s breathing was sharp and audible beside him, despite the swirling plume of laughter and conversation that spun around them.  
  
A quick look to Spock illuminated fuck-all. He didn’t show outward signs of upset. In fact, he appeared almost deathly calm – robotic, even.  
  
 _Ah, crap_.  
  
A young girl burst into wailing fury at being denied a funnel cake, and Spock’s eye twitched.  
  
Jim was not a fan of retreating as a general rule – but right now, that seemed like the wisest option. They had to distance themselves from the commotion of the crow. It was unlikely Spock had ever been tossed in such a menagerie of ruckus and emotion.  
  
Well, Spock probably  _should_  have said something about his disdain for large groups of people  _before_  he’d decided to tag along.  
  
 _And I thought Vulcans were geniuses_.  
  
“Come on,” Jim said brusquely. For a moment, Spock remained an immovable weight – his back solidly pressed into the wood of the stall. “We need to  _leave_ ,” Jim stressed.  
  
After what seemed like  _forever_ , Spock finally seemed to unearth the will to move. Jim immediately began to tug Spock through the flurry of the crowd.  
  
It took a minute to reach Jim’s intended destination. They were too far into the park to get out before Spock’s hard-drive shut down, so Jim had another plan. If you couldn’t move out, you moved  _up_.  
  
Jim manoeuvred Spock in front of him, and up a couple of wobbly metal stairs. They stood at the base of a brightly lit Ferris wheel. “Get on.”  
  
“What are we –”  
  
“Just shut up and get on.” Jim gave the small of Spock’s back a light, insistent push. So he wasn’t the best at comforting people – but he was getting the job done, wasn’t he?  
  
Spock shot a terse look over his shoulder – but complied, as he settled himself stiffly onto the bench. Jim followed, flopped back in the seat without grace, and held up his arms loosely; allowing the carnie to lock the bar snugly over their laps.  
  
Jim angled a considering look towards Spock. His fingers were clenched with white-knuckled ferocity on the iron bar before them. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he stared blankly ahead with glassy eyes.  
  
“Hey. I’m right here,” Jim said. He considered holding Spock’s hand, but the guy was strung so tightly, he just might flip out and nerve-pinch him or something.  
  
 _Fuck_  – the day Jim became afraid of someone  _pinching_  him was a pathetic day on James Kirk’s calendar. Welcome back to kindergarten – only this time, the kid you pick on can take you out with a delicate squeeze of thumb and forefinger.  
  
Spock replied without inflection. “I am aware of your presence.”  
  
The Ferris wheel jerked. It began to whir as they were swept up and back a few meagre feet. The wheel stopped once more as the carriage before them was refilled with new passengers.  
  
Jim released a deep breath. “Do you know what we’re on?”  
  
Spock waited the entirety of another carriage filling before he spoke softly. He peered down at his straining knuckles. “No.”  
  
“You’ll probably think this ride is illogical. Hell, it sorta is. All you do is go ‘round and ‘round, real slow.” Jim swung his legs jovially, and the bench rocked and squawked, betraying its age. “It’s a Ferris wheel. If you’ve ever seen famous holos of London, you’ve probably seen a real massive one along the river Thames. This is just a dinky one, but I like it – always have.”  
  
Jim shrugged an arm behind Spock – not quite resting upon his shoulders, but pressing softly against his shoulder blades. He nattered on casually, hoping to illicit a shift in Spock’s flagpole-up-the-ass posture.  
  
Bit by bit, they were swept further towards the apex of the wheel. Voices became muted and fogged, and the bright lights faded to the equivalent of the stars. The air was sweet and cool, and didn’t reek of hot dogs and sweat and cotton candy. The world below became veiled, and the bleeding colours of the setting sun embraced them.  
  
“Once the wheel fills up, we’ll start moving in earnest. This is the boring part – the waiting.” Jim’s thumb idly stroked the soft flannel of Spock’s bony shoulder.  
  
Jim noted – not for the first time – that Spock was all angles. Jutting hip, yards of gangly leg, slashing cheekbones and eyebrows, militant movements – everything was sharp, but for two things.  
  
Eyes and lips. Curves and unexpected warmth – and  _emotion_.  
  
“This was my favourite ride when I was a kid. Sure, I liked the spinning ones and the falling ones, and the shooting games and shit. But the feeling you get on this – it’s like –” The ride jolted to life, and the wheel began its lethargic circulations. “I dunno – getting away.”  
  
Jim ventured a glance toward Spock. His countenance was less  _impending doom_  and more properly expressionless Vulcan.  
  
Spock blinked languidly, as if slipping from a dream. He did not meet Jim’s eyes, but looked to the far-away fields that bruised purple and black with incoming evening. “What are you escaping?”  
  
“I don’t escape anything,” Jim defended too sharply. “There’s a  _difference_. ‘Getting away’ is more like a reprieve. Escape is defeatist.”  
  
Spock didn’t reply immediately, and that was a large enough lag to irritate Jim of this conversation. “So, were you planning on telling me any time soon that you hate crowds? Because that would have been  _really_  useful information, say, an hour ago.”  
  
“I apologise,” Spock said austerely. “I was previously unaware of my level of receptiveness to considerable groups of Humans.”  
  
“Whaddaya mean?”  
  
Finally Spock spared Jim a glance, but his eyes were too dark to mirror anything but the night. “Even without physical contact, Vulcans remain prone to the emotions of others. With years of discipline we can learn to shield ourselves from the constant onslaught.” Spock swallowed, his jaw working tightly, as he clearly fought to expel the next words. “I had assumed my time spent in Souix City would be the most challenging, and had fortified myself accordingly. But here, with the crowd experiencing such united emotions –”  
  
“Ah – it’s okay. Really.” Apparently there was a delicate line between relaxing Spock through sarcasm and humour, and plain riling him up. “I just wanted to come here because I thought it’d be fun – not to send you into panic mode.”  
  
Spock appeared blatantly affronted as he met Jim’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “I was not panicked. Vulcans do not panic.”  
  
“Yeah.” Jim raised his brows with a knowing look. “Sure.”  
  
Heedless once more to Spock’s comfort zone, Jim wiggled further near him; their hips pressed warmly together. Jim’s thumb confidently swept a stripe from the back of Spock’s ear, down to the meeting of collar to skin. “Anyway, I know the perfect way to relax. Works every time – unless you’re a eunuch or something.”  
  
With that absolutely inappropriate segue, Jim tilted his chin and invaded Spock’s personal bubble – enough to inhale Spock’s exhale.  
  
Spock sounded as if he’d just been presented with a particularly confounding physics problem. He cocked his head and peered down at Jim. “What are you attempting?”  
  
 _Attempt_  nothing. Jim was painfully curious – okay, and kind of horny – and he never gave up on something once his mind was set. “I’m trying to kiss you, if you’d hold still.”  
  
Spock’s wide, fathomless gaze descended to Jim’s lips for a breath, as a single brow flicked. “Why?”  
  
Jim shrugged. “Because it’s fun and it feels good. Why not?”  
  
“Why not what?”  
  
Jim went nearly nose-to-nose with Spock, as he tried his hand at batting his eyelashes. “We gonna kiss or not?”  
  
Spock appeared dubious. “By what means?”  
  
A dramatically weighted sigh flung from Jim’s lips.  _Seriously?_  
  
Jim couldn’t recall a time in his recent past that he  _wasn’t_  kissing some lucky guy or gal – or, you know, he’d tried his hand at a couple of aliens, too. But that hadn’t been as great as he’d expected – apparently tentacles just weren’t his  _thing_.  
  
Jim didn’t quite grasp why he assumed it would be different with Spock. Hell, in all likelihood it would be a disaster to kiss a stone-cold Vulcan.  
  
Then again, Jim had an affinity for disasters – beautiful to watch, exciting to be swept up in – oh, and the  _carnage_  that was left behind.  
  
And anyway, being nestled beside Spock right now – with Jim’s fingers skimming the hot, silky nape of Spock’s neck – that was as far-reached from cold as humping the equator.  
  
“Um, by  _French_  means, hopefully,” Jim said.  
  
“I was not aware that you were French.”  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. He angled himself awkwardly behind the bar to lean in further, as his tongue dabbed a corner of his lips.  
  
“I’m not. It’s the  _style_  of kissing – but I mean, if you’re scared, we can start on a  _remedial_ level.”  
  
 _That_  hooked Spock. Apparently he loathed being below-par just as much as Jim. Possibly more, what with the shitty Vulcan restraints and expectations Spock was likely put under.  
  
Spock clenched his jaw. “I do not wish to begin on any level. I was merely curious. I did not, at any point in our conversation, concede to exchanging Human affection with you.”  
  
 _Oh_ , he sure as hell had. Despite the rigor to his spine, Spock was essentially sinking into Jim’s personal space. Jim would have had to be blind not to notice.  
  
“Regardless,” Spock murmured, catching Jim by surprise. “That is not how we kiss on Vulcan –French, or otherwise.”  
  
Jim marvelled at his own hoarse whisper. “Show me.”  
  
Spock’s voice was barely audible. “Why?”  
  
His proclamation leapt forward without hesitation. “I want to know  _everything_. I want to feel it all.”  
  
Spock seemed to consider that for a moment. “Illogical.”  
  
“Show me,” Jim said intently. “Hurry, before the ride ends.”  
  
“I think you are already aware of how to perform the act.”  
  
Jim frowned. His mind fizzled as he grew further impatient. “I don’t. Fucking  _show me_  – kiss me!”  
  
Time did not slow. The world did not stop turning on its axis when Spock reached for Jim’s hand.  
  
But Jim  _did_  feel like his senses had been thrust beneath a magnifying glass.  
  
Spock guided Jim’s fingers apart patiently; their palms facing each other’s between them. Spock’s slender hand hesitated, before the pads of his fingertips pressed whisper-soft against Jim’s.  
  
 _Fuck_ , and Spock’s hand was  _hot_. The drag of his soft palm across the calloused terrain of Jim’s flesh was like being stroked by a supernova.  
  
It was over too quickly for Jim’s liking. Spock’s hand slipped away, his fingertips trailing embers down Jim’s wrist before they dispersed.  
  
Wow.  
  
 _Wow_? When the fuck had he started saying ‘ _wow_ ’? When had his vocabulary been reduced to grade-school exclamations?  
  
This was fucking  _bullshit_.  
  
That was more like it.  
  
“That was...” Jim swallowed and raked his gaze over Spock’s placid face. “I mean, I knew Vulcan’s didn’t touch – hence the whole ‘rock-out’ hand symbol and all – but I didn’t know why.”  
  
“Indeed. We are touch telepaths and, consequently, our hands are imperative towards the skill. I was unaware of your ignorance regarding the subject.” Spock was cool as a cucumber, apparently – _bastard_.  
  
Jim snorted. “I’m hardly ignorant.” He paused and cocked his head. “So, does that mean I stole a kiss before I’d even known I’d done it?”  
  
Spock visibly hesitated.  
  
Jim’s lips parted in a soft ‘oh’ of realisation. Then he jumped on the open invitation, ignorant of the pain his healing lip radiated as he smiled. “ _You_! You stole a kiss from  _me_. You could have just as easily  _not_  helped me up. Oh, Vulcans are sneaky as fuck, aren’t they?” Jim winked lewdly. “It’s always the quiet ones.”  
  
Spock appeared unable to retaliate for a time, and Jim was over the moon that he’d finally caught Spock off-guard.  
  
Spock collected his wits without fanfare. “It would have been considered rude to deny a helping hand on this planet. Humans are overly-sensitive creatures and take offense to the most illogical of actions.”  
  
“Likely story,” Jim quipped good-naturedly. “So...” He skimmed his thumb across Spock’s knuckles, his eyes sparkling at the hushed intake of breath. “Was I any good – you know, the first time around?”  
  
Spock did not move is hand, nor did he reciprocate Jim’s advances. “I have no previous experience to base an educated conclusion.”  
  
 _Virgin_! Virgin kisser. God, something about that felt so deliciously dirty. Spock – this guy who was frighteningly intimidating and good-looking and  _older_  than Jim – hadn’t slid those soft, competent hands over anyone else’s.  
  
Hadn’t touched those sinfully curved lips to anyone’s, either.  
  
Jim was sure his eyes bugged out of his head for a moment, before he quickly regrouped. “Well,  _my_  hypothesis is that I’m a fantastic kisser. But the only way to prove such a theory would be through a, uh...  _number_ , of trials. Don’t you think?”  
  
“That is... logical.” Spock admitted, his cheeks darkening. “For a Human.”  
  
“But  _first_  –” Jim firmly cupped the back of Spock’s neck, and captured his mouth in one sloppy, searing kiss.  
  
In that very moment, the Ferris wheel began its descent. Jim’s heart leapt into his throat as they dipped lightly back to Earth.  
  
A quick nip on that succulently-serious bottom lip sealed the deal.  
  
Jim released his hold on Spock. He grinned as they came to a jarring halt, and the metal bar was lifted from their laps. “And  _that_  is how we kiss.”  
  
Jim hopped off the bench and turned with his hand outstretched towards Spock. His smile was genuine and bright as carousel lights.  
  
“Welcome to Earth, Spock.”

*

  
They laid upon a steep hill together, with their heads pillowed upon cool, prickly grass. The chatter of dozens of couples filtered pleasantly through the air. Groups of teenagers from Jim’s school – whom he happily ignored – surrounded the pair; as did parents with their children, and couples on blankets beneath the stars.  
  
Jim was comfortable with his own silence. Awaiting the fireworks display, his shoulder a whisper away from Spock’s – their pinkies barely kissing between them – it was nice. Better than  _nice_ , but Jim could hardly think while he felt like he was falling without a parachute – and the end was a long way down.  
  
Some might have been frightened by the emotion, but Jim found it...  _exhilarating_.  
  
When the first firework shattered the sky in a spray of azure glitter and flame, Jim whooped with glee. He looked up at the sky with unadulterated joy – this never got old. Some things never would.  
  
Yet even with a cacophony of colour and sound thundering above their heads, Jim found it too easy to turn away from the spectacle and study the Vulcan beside him.  
  
Spock’s eyes were wide in the wake of relaxation and astonishment. His mouth remained still and soft, his brows immobile, but his intent gaze upon the sky was like a megaphone.  
  
Jim found himself smiling, simply because Spock was smiling too – in his own way.  
  
Fuchsia and lime spangled and sparked across the strong plains of Spock’s profile, bathing him in colour, as it highlighted the guileless wonder painted across his features. Spock  _truly_   was alien to Jim. He was perplexing in his stoicism and logic, foreign in his unexpected innocence, and disarming in his sudden bouts of wisdom.  
  
And Spock was, without a doubt, a really awesome dude.  
  
Jim wanted to have him.  
  
As if sensing Jim’s pointed attention, Spock lolled his head to unwaveringly meet his gaze. Silver and gold speckled the heavens like starlight aflame, but neither was watching the show anymore.  
  
Jim curled his pinkie firmly around Spock’s unnaturally long one. Spock replied in kind.  
  
A familiar, rich intonation flooded Jim’s senses – though he could swear he hadn’t seen the Vulcan’s lips move. “ _Thank you_.”


	5. Chapter 5

The silent parts of Jim were his most personal, his most important.  
  
After Sam had cut out, hours upon hours of Jim’s childhood had centred upon imaginary friends. Playing by himself, talking to himself, falling and getting up by himself. Years had passed since Jim had reached for a helping hand – since he’d  _wanted_  aid from anyone, at all. Fuck ‘em – right?  
  
Jim loved noise. Thumping music he could feel in his veins – raucous laughter fuelled by freedom and cheap, stolen alcohol – thunderstorms that could tear the roof off – the television blasted loud enough to keep him from falling asleep.  
  
Those were the times Jim didn’t think; just  _felt_ , felt it all, like there was only the present. No shadows that whispered of the past and no blaring warnings of what the future held. There was now or nothing.  
  
So why did Jim keep bringing Spock to places that were so damn  _quiet_?  
  
 _Whatever_.  
  
He and Spock mirrored each other’s positions – leaning back against the long, wide hood of the shining Oldsmobile. The heel of one of Spock’s black, pristine Converse rested on the bumper, with his other leg stretched out, long and lean before him, for balance. Jim’s ankles were crossed, his arms folded over his chest.  
  
Parked at the end of the road, where the cracked blacktop faded, they stared out over the quarry, in to the apricot setting sun.  
  
“So,” Jim said, ignoring the tight coil in his gut from the long span of silence. “What  _is_  a Vulcan like you doing in a place like this? I mean, an entire  _summer_  in Riverside? Sounds like Shitsville to me.”  
  
Spock continued to look into the distance, his face still. “I am unsure.”  
  
Jim flicked a glance to Spock, unable to look away from the pale profile shadowed in pink and gold. “And here I was thinkin’ you were just a snotty know-it-all.”  
  
“I would say the same of you.”  
  
Jim breathed a soft laugh and lightly elbowed Spock’s side. “But really. What’s the deal – why now? Your ‘rents just get tired of having you underfoot?”  
  
“I cannot fathom how I would come to be beneath  _anyone’s_  feet,” Spock said with a narrow look Jim’s way. Jim grinned, but said nothing. After a moment, Spock glanced away. “I believe my mother wished for me to experience the other aspect of my family’s culture.”  
  
“Yeah?” Jim didn’t think Spock sounded so sure. He peered down between them and noted Spock’s hand stretched out on the hot hood of the Oldsmobile. Spock’s pinky tapped lightly on the black metal.  
  
“The fact is –” Spock’s mouth twisted down. “The fact of the matter is that my mother has rarely shared with me any cultural aspects from her home world. I cannot ascertain why she would wish to introduce me to Earth  _now_. I am – I have commitments on Vulcan. I have people to whom I am obligated to return.”  
  
“So? It’s not like you’re here forever,” Jim said with a shrug.  
  
“I believe that, by sending me here on the cusp of several important decisions, my mother is attempting to convey a message,” Spock said, as if Jim had never spoke.  
  
Jim frowned. “Wouldn’t she just tell you, straight up?”  
  
Spock lolled his head back in an eerily Human gesture, his eyes bright amber in the waning light. “ _You_  are the only being I have ever encountered who speaks, as you say,  _straight up_.”  
  
Jim’s lips twitched. “It’s a shame everyone can’t be me.”  
  
“I am thankful.”  
  
“That everyone can’t be me, or that everyone  _isn’t_  me?” Jim asked with a grin. He shifted, leaned his hip against the car, and rested a hand on the hood.  
  
Spock remained stoic, but the dark sweep of his eyelashes had lowered as his gaze fell upon Jim’s mouth. Jim relished the languid pull of heat that pooled low between his legs; the zing that shot up his spine, leaving him both loose and on edge.  
  
Jim enjoyed playing this game. If Spock wanted to be chased – and he clearly did – Jim would oblige. Although, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever pursued  _anybody_. Normally if someone was hard work, Jim discarded them. He wanted fun, not a commitment or a complication.  
  
Jim was pretty positive that Spock ate commitment and complications for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They were probably the only things that drove him.  
  
Well, aside from the piece of Jim which reminded him of Spock beating the shit out of those bar guys – of Spock nursing Jim’s wounds with a blush clear across those sharp cheekbones – of Spock’s silent, glowing happiness beneath bursting fireworks – of Spock’s secret smiles and his masked surprise whenever Jim said something he’d never heard before.  
  
Spock was ruled by more than Vulcan principles. Spock was...he was different. Special.  
  
Their lips were inches apart, their shoulders slumped towards each other as Spock’s eyes closed and Jim’s remained wide open. The expanse of Spock’s palm found Jim’s hip, and it was like a searing handprint through his clothes.  
  
“How d’you like it?” Jim said softly, tilting to his toes, bringing their mouths closer.  
  
“What?” Spock asked, blinking his clouded, unfocussed eyes.  
  
“Here,” Jim said, whispering his lips over Spock’s smooth jaw. “Earth. Are you happy your mom made you come?”  
  
Jim didn’t know what he was searching for – why was he even asking – but the words came all the same. He waited for Spock’s reply with his lungs bursting for breath.  
  
“Currently,” Spock said, his free hand cupping the back of Jim’s head. “ _Yes_.”  
  
Something bright burst in Jim’s chest, right before he uttered a small, needy noise and caught Spock’s mouth with his own. Spock’s reaction was immediate and still a bit a clumsy, but Jim relished the strong, possessive slide of Spock’s hand to the small of Jim’s back, urging him closer.  
  
Jim’s fingers circled Spock’s belt buckle, slipped into the jean waist band and tugged. He yanked Spock forward as Jim shifted and hopped up onto the hood, his thighs spread and welcoming. Spock’s eyes went sharp and dark, sending a thrill through Jim’s limbs. He wrapped his arms around Spock’s neck and goaded him into a biting kiss of teeth and tongue.  
  
Spock was a fast learner – Jim had gleaned that much from their recent trysts. So it wasn’t surprise that had him gasping when Spock mouthed at his neck, laved at the thin cling of summer sweat and dirt at his collar. The air between them was gritty, too fucking hot for the falling night, and Jim sucked in thick lung-fulls as he canted his chin and dove his fingers into Spock’s silky hair.  
  
As Spock’s hands skirted beneath Jim’s shirt and firmly gripped his waist, Jim could swear there was history between them. Not a week’s worth of time, but years. When Spock nuzzled behind Jim’s ear, it didn’t feel like the first. When Jim clamped his legs around Spock’s lithe form, it didn’t feel like the times he’d done it with other guys. It felt like he’d done this exact thing with Spock since...  _always_.  
  
Too quickly, Jim grew impatient for Spock’s lips and tongue; he searched out Spock’s mouth again, worked the bottom lip with his teeth and ground the aching hardness in his jeans up against Spock’s hips. The tension in his thighs was near-painful, but still Jim found his last scrap of sanity holding back from grabbing for Spock’s zipper.  
  
For once, Jim loved the wait, the wanting. He loved whatever was happening here – this push-pull with Spock. He wanted it to last for however long he could keep it going.  
  
Spock was like this bizarre miracle that fell from the sky, here to distract Jim from another sweltering summer of tedium and silence. Not only was he sexy, older – and fuck, could he _kiss_  once he’d learned the mechanics – but he was  _smart_. He was funny and quick and he didn’t seem to care that Jim was a complete fuck-up. Yeah, Spock was out of this world in more ways than one.  
  
And Jim wouldn’t say it aloud, even with a phaser to his head.  
  
When they finally parted, Jim was breathing hard into Spock’s neck, while Spock found one of Jim’s hands and threaded their fingers. Jim opened his eyes, blinked, and saw that the sun had sunk until the stars had popped up to take its place.  
  
With Spock, the passage of time was strange and fickle. Too fast when they were together, and too slow, too boring when apart. Jim didn’t know what to make of that, but he wasn’t going to bother finding out.  
  
“I will be expected home soon,” Spock said into Jim’s hair. The pad of his thumb brushed alongside Jim’s.  
  
Jim snorted and laughed softly. “You kidding me, man? You’re like  _eighteen_  – you can do whatever the hell you want.”  
  
Spock pulled back with a frown, his head cocked like a confused bird. The expression nearly had Jim laughing in Spock’s face, but he decided that probably wouldn’t be wise. “Punctuality is expected of me.”  
  
Jim raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Did you ever think that  _I’m_  what your mom wanted you to get out of Earth?”  
  
Spock’s own brow jolted up in reply. “Doubtful.”  
  
“But possible,” Jim said, his smile widening. He squeezed Spock’s hand. “Come on, Spock. Live a little. I know this twenty-four hour pie place on the Iowa-Illinois border – best pie on Earth, I swear. If we leave now we can get there and make it back by, like, dawn. You game?”  
  
“Game?”  
  
“Wanna go?” Jim lightly pushed Spock’s chest and sat up with a lazy stretch, sure to let his t-shirt ride up his stomach. “Have some fun with me?”  
  
“I –” Spock’s eyes were wide. He swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I do.”  
  
Jim hummed with approval and patted Spock’s cheek with a smirk. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”  
  
“How comforting.”  
  
“I’m a very comforting guy.”  
  
“Yes, clearly.”  
  
“Do I detect sarcasm?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh, you’re good.”  
  
“I am a very good guy.”  
  
“Yeah. I know.”


	6. Chapter 6

“That chicken is a bigot.”  
  
“Fowls do not have the ability to devote any obstinacy to opinions, as they have none to begin with, Jim.”  
  
Jim scowled and kicked a stone in the chicken’s direction, but was thankful when it stopped a good two feet away from the beast. The chicken in question looked up at Jim and bore down with the most bone-chilling, unblinking expression he had ever witnessed. “Whatever. I don’t believe you. Look at that chicken. It hates me.”  
  
“That is not bigotry. The chicken is mistrustful of you because you enjoy physically pursuing her on a regular basis.”  
  
“No, she’s a  _bigot_. She only ever attacks me when I try to make a move on you. She’s a homo-hating bigot chicken.”  
  
“You’re imagination never ceases to astound me.”  
  
Jim smiled fondly at Spock. “And it never will.” Ignoring the dirty fowl, Jim placed his hands on Spock’s thighs and leaned in with expertly lowered lashes. “Now come and kiss me.  _Ah_  – fuck!”  
  
Jim yelped as he jumped away from the manically bucking chicken that darted around his feet. Rather than battling it out, Jim hurtled towards an abandoned tire swing and propelled himself with a single jump onto the rubber; holding tightly onto the swaying rope. “Fucking chicken, get the hell away from me with your beady eyes and tiny claw-feet. I don’t like you either – I’m gonna make fajitas outta you!”  
  
Spock approached carefully, and was clearly stifling a smug look. “Perhaps it would be wise if we found a new location for the day.”  
  
“Good idea, I don’t like it here anyway. I don’t stick around where I’m not appreciated.”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“Here, I got a place – you might have to carry me off the farm, though,” Jim added with a baleful look at the chicken – who was clearly giving him the stink-eye.  
  
“I am not carrying you.”

*

  
As much as the fireworks had been fun, it had quickly become evident to Jim that big, rowdy crowds weren’t exactly Spock’s bag. Quiet public places were acceptable, like museums and stuff. Private places were even better.  
  
Jim was able to witness a subtle unfolding of Spock from his rigid Vulcan skin; and he had to admit, it was kind of sexy. Almost like watching Spock strip – not that he’d had the pleasure, yet.  
  
Which was, in itself, bizarre for a person like Jim. It was usually – get in, get the job done, get out and leave no one impregnated.  
  
With Spock it was – well. It was  _something_.  
  
Spock made Jim want to do ridiculous things, like cuddle. Like share ice cream with him under the boughs of a willow, or argue the Drake equation – like teaching Spock to play poker, or learning Vulcan. Like being together, silent and existing.  
  
Spock made Jim feel normal and unique all at once.  
  
“So, I was thinkin’.” Jim grappled a sturdy branch for leverage, and pulled himself up into the tree. He wedged himself between two thick pillars of oak.  
  
Spock sat in a pool of sunlight beside the pond’s grassy edge; legs folded in a yoga pose, or something. He sat like that a lot. Spock pursed his lips. “That is novel.”  
  
Jim snorted and rolled his eyes. “ _Ha_ - _ha_.” Without a solid path in mind, Jim pushed off one rough column of the tree and hefted himself up onto a higher, thinner bough. Leaves crackled and fell with his raucous ministrations. “I was thinkin’ we’ve known each other, what, a couple weeks?”  
  
“Thirteen days, three hours, and –”  
  
“Aw, that’s cute,” Jim teased, as he stood at full height on the creaking branch. “You’re keeping time.” He hopped up nimbly, hooking his arms over a chunkier offshoot above his head. For a moment he was dangling mid-air; his armpits securely clamped over the branch, legs swinging for purchase on any branch to help him up.  
  
He didn’t miss Spock’s frown as the he shielded his eyes with his hand, and peered up at Jim’s flailing legs. “Do not infer special treatment. Vulcans are cognisant of an internal sense of time. You are going to fall.”  
  
Jim did his best to flash his most impish smile, even as he was almost definitely about to plummet to his untimely death.  
  
“I never fall unless I want to.” Using mostly arm strength, he pushed himself up and on to the branch. With an exaggerated huff of breath, he flopped on his belly. His arms swung down loosely on either side of the branch, with his cheek digging into the crusty bark.  
  
“ _Anyway_ , we’ve known each other thirteen days and some change. You’ve told me about Vulcan, I’ve showed you around Earth – well, Iowa – but I still don’t know what makes Mr. Spock tick.”  
  
There was that endearing little flick of Spock’s brow; the action which goaded Jim to muss him up every time.  
  
“I hope you understand that I do not literally have a time-keeping device within my body that elicits such a noise.”  
  
“Oh boy. You’re on a roll today.”  
  
“I believe I am sitting quite still.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
Spock was finally confident enough with the jab that he merely raised his brows – even a couple days ago, he would have stiffened up. “You express the emotion most peculiarly.”  
  
“No, you’re just emotionally stunted.”  
  
“I prefer emotional stagnation to intellectual torpidity.”  
  
Jim sat up and blew a loud raspberry. “Oh  _no_ , Jimmy does not understand the big words! You totally win this round by pulling a thesaurus out your ass. I’m so impressed.”  
  
“I am certain I did not pull a textbook from my –“  
  
“So, Spock – what are your plans after this summer?” Not that Jim was against thinking about Spock’s ass, but only under other circumstances. Awesome segue, though.  
  
“Joining the Vulcan Science Academy is the most logical endeavour.”  
  
Jim cocked his head at the reluctance fluctuating Spock’s characteristically stable tone. “But it’s not what you want.” Fact, not question.  
  
Spock’s eyelashes casted dramatic shadows across the pale curve of his cheek, as his gaze gravitated to his lap. “I will also apply to Starfleet Academy, in the event that I am not inducted into the VSA.”  
  
A familiar pang constricted Jim’s chest. “Starfleet, huh?” Tongue in cheek, Jim nodded. “Asphyxiating bureaucracy and rigid regulations – yeah, that would suit you to a tee.”  
  
Spock bristled. “Joining Starfleet is an honourable decision.”  
  
Jim grinned. “If you wanna be a loyal dog for the government, sure.”  
  
Silence prevailed. Jim was content to slouch on the fat branch, enjoying the kiss of the humid breeze. He peered up through the scattered puzzle of green leaves, to the cloudless sky above. He wondered idly if pieces of his father’s body still floated through space, or if they’ve just degraded or imploded or something.  
  
“I believe it would be apt to pose a similar query towards you.”  
  
Jim smiled at a scurrying squirrel. “What question?”  
  
“What are your future endeavours?”  
  
“Uh, avoiding incarceration?” Restlessness tingled in Jim’s legs, and he began to scoot towards end of the branch, which jutted over the pond.  
  
“Have you considered joining Starfleet?”  
  
Jim swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. “I’d rather die than set foot on one of their fucking ships.”  
  
“I admit I am perplexed. A position in Starfleet would suit your interests. I am positive you would excel, if only you assented to following direction.”  
  
“Shut up and ship out?” Jim scoffed. He broke off a dead leaf and released it, then watched it helicopter into the still water below. “I’ll pass – I’m not particularly keen on walking into death for a captain on an ego trip.”  
  
“Your father served in space, did he not?” Jim didn’t reply, nor spared a glance toward Spock. After a moment he murmured, “Those are his boots you wear.”  
  
Jim shot a glance at the clunky shoes discarded at the base of the tree. His heart whimpered. “Yeah, he served – and  _died_  the day I was born. What a fuckin’  _hero_.”  
  
Realising that this conversation would go nowhere fast – he had never understood people’s fascination with the dead, anyway – Jim considered the cool, clear water beneath his swinging feet. He shrugged. “Whatever, it’s not like I knew the guy. He’s a face in a history book.”  
  
The second before Jim plunged headfirst into the pond, he made out Spock’s surprise-roughened voice. “ _Jim_.”  
  
Then there was silence; a cool, blessed cocoon of weightlessness. Jim did not struggle to the surface. Instead, he languidly drifted to the water’s edge, in the direction of Spock’s muffled splashes. Spock was apparently rushing in to – what – save him? The guy really was adorable.  
  
Lithe, powerful strokes of Jim’s arms brought him nearer to the murky outline of Spock’s legs, as buoyancy guided him towards the surface.  
  
Jim burst up in front of Spock, sending frothing waves in a corona around the pair of them. He beamed at Spock; water cascading down Jim’s face and catching in his eyelashes. “Hey, did you know your shoes are still on?”  
  
Spock aimed a half-hearted glare Jim’s way. The blatant evasion of Spock’s previous questioning clearly hadn’t gone unnoticed, but Jim really couldn’t care less. He wanted to play, not think.  
  
Spock ventured to chastise him with, “It was highly probable that you would injure yourself with your reckless actions. I had to attempt to ensure your health, even though I cannot swim.”  
  
Jim’s cheeks ached pleasantly from smiling as he lazily linked his fingers behind Spock’s stiff neck. Jim’s grasp was slippery at Spock’s nape as he spryly hopped up and wrapped his legs around Spock’s waist. Spock's doe-eyed bewilderment was in stark relief with the way Spock’s greedy hands seemed to find their home, cupping Jim’s ass.  
  
All Jim could do in response was throw his head back and laugh. “Shut up, you big baby. We’re in the shallows. You’re fucking  _standing_.”  
  
Jim slumped forward and rested his wet brow upon Spock’s hot, dry one. “Besides, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”  
  
Spock had already collected himself. His only signs of amusement were the baby crow’s feet splayed from the corners of his eyes.  
  
 _Oh_ , but then there was the unmistakable pressure of Spock’s swelling erection lodged between Jim’s spread thighs.  
  
Spock's voice was husky and left a warm path trailing down Jim’s belly. “That is a lofty assurance.”  
  
Jim pursed his lips and rolled his hips experimentally, and his eyes lit up when the Spock failed to repress a shudder. Jim struggled to keep his tone casual. “Not really. You’re easy to keep safe. I mean you’re, like, the most careful,  _boring_  person I know.”  
  
Once he was confident Spock was holding him up without effort, Jim slid his hands down Spock’s saturated shirt. Sneaky fingers crept between them, and Jim lifted his hips to unzip Spock’s fly.  
  
Jim’s smile was exaggeratedly guileless, but his eyes were practically hellfire. “Safety Spock.”  
  
Spock’s lashes fluttered, his cheeks flushing the colour of oak leaves floating in the water. “I see no merit in placing myself in needlessly dangerous situations when an alternative solution can be –“  
  
“Holy shit. You’re going commando.”  
  
“Commando?”  
  
Jim gulped and palmed Spock’s considerable erection. His own cock twitched impatiently against the sodden barriers of clothing. “No underwear,” he choked out. Yep – definitely no underwear.  
  
“Underwear?”  
  
“What are you, a fucking parrot?” Jim was already tearing at his own zipper.  
  
“Vulcans do not wear undergarments, therefore I did not consider purchasing any.”  
  
Jim’s fingers fumbled. That was too hot – too much.  _Christ._  
  
“All this time –  _every day_  – you’ve been going commando?”  
  
“That is a logical conclusion.”  
  
Jim groaned with unabashed elation, as he grabbed Spock’s face and clumsily crushed their lips together. He didn’t care how he kissed Spock – he just  _needed_  to kiss Spock. Here, anywhere –  _now_.  
  
Between heated, hasty kisses, Jim mumbled, “Can’t believe – all this time –  _fuck_ , Spock – so hot – why didn’t I – jump you – earlier?”  
  
Pleasantries and civilised speech hurled out the window. It took all of Jim’s power not to simply drown them both with his exuberant, grabby hands. Spock’s cock was freed without issue – but Jim’s jeans took some convincing to shove down, as Jim wholly refused to release his leg-lock. With the help of Jim’s trembling fingers and Spock’s self-assured hands, they could both finally roll their hips together in eager abandon.  
  
Their lips and tongues sought each other’s out with clumsy bites and licks; tasting every corner and curve of each other’s mouths. Jim’s name was like a mantra on Spock’s beautifully swollen lips -  _Jim_ ,  _Jim_ ,  _Jim_. Whispered aloud, murmured in Jim’s head – he didn’t know, and didn’t care. All he cared about was the climax, and freedom and Spock.  
  
“Spock.  _So_  – Jesus – you are –” Jim gripped their erections below the water and pumped them eagerly. The cool pond provided all the lubrication necessary. Spock’s face was pressed into the wet crook of Jim’s neck, where he lapped possessively at every bare inch of flesh. Jim imagined the water hissing and evaporating straight off the desert plains of their skin.  
  
Spock completed Jim’s unfinished sentence with a shallow hum. “ _Exquisite_.”  
  
That was what Spock said – Jim was  _exquisite_.  
  
Spock batted Jim’s fingers away in place of his own sweltering palm and hot, curling fingers – and that was the end of Jim. He flung his arms around Spock’s shoulders, nails digging urgently into hard, stony shoulder blades. Spock’s short huffs of breath as he jerked forth at a rapid pace were sexier than any lasciviously loud moan that Jim could imagine.  
  
Jim squeezed his eyes shut, with teeth grinding almost in time with the sudden wobbling of Spock’s knees. The burn in his gut sparked like wildfire, as Jim thrust haphazardly into Spock’s fist, against Spock’s cock. He felt release coil at the base of his spine and highlight every nerve in his pulsing dick; everything waiting to spring and spasm at once.  
  
And when sweet, shattering relief finally claimed them both, the bliss was so unexpectedly violent that Jim choked on any possible scream or groan. There was only the roaring in his ears and Spock’s repressed shudders – and their cocks spilling hot over each other for a split second, before the water cleansed the remnants of their activities into memory.  
  
Jim didn’t know how long he’d clung to Spock’s warm, wet body, but he was sure if he voiced the inquiry he would be precisely answered. Yelping quietly as he tugged his spent dick out of Spock’s loose hold, Jim gathered the will to stand. With a small, knowing smirk Spock’s way, Jim tucked himself in and zipped his fly, and Spock followed suit.  
  
For a moment they simply stood in the water, with Jim soaked to the bone and Spock more than on his way.  
  
“So,” Jim drawled, gravitating back to Spock. He pressed a hand to the Spock's chest, and began to walk him backwards out of the pond. “You think I’m exquisite?”  
  
“It is possible that I said, ‘exasperating’,” Spock corrected drolly.  
  
Jim laughed, and promptly tripped the back of Spock’s knee, pushing him into the water.  
  


*

  
The heavy sun baked the earth beneath their bare, muddy feet. Jim ambled down the gritty, dirt path, with heavy boots dangling from his fingers, and swaying in time with his easy swagger. Every few minutes, he’d sneak a look towards the tall, silent Vulcan beside him. Spock was bare-chested, as Jim was; their wet shirts tucked into the back of their waistbands like tails. His shoes were also hooked in those fascinatingly slender fingers.  
  
Jim could feel the bridge of his nose begin to fry beneath the sun’s unforgiving rays, but he didn’t give a damn. On his billionth glance at Spock, Jim noted he was pale as ever – not a single marring mark to Spock's skin. Well, there was that single delectable freckle at the base of Spock’s spine –like an exclamation point on that long length of back – but Jim was almost positive Spock was oblivious to the blemish. Jim wasn’t about to tell him that he’d noticed, either.  
  
A bright, scarlet cardinal swept across their path, chattering angrily as it chased a crow three times its size. Jim caught Spock’s swept brow with a soft laugh.  
  
“Crow was probably butting in where it didn’t belong,” Jim supplied. “They like to eat eggs, baby birds and stuff. Cardinals don’t care how small they are – they’re scrappy as hell, and scary to boot when you piss ‘em off. She’ll chase that crow to the county line if she has to.”  
  
Spock’s arm bumped Jim’s companionably. His eyebrows were raised gently, his gaze amiable. “Animal Planet?”  
  
“Obviously,” Jim replied with a cheesy grin. He nicked Spock’s side with his elbow.  
  
They strolled in silence the remainder of the distance to Spock’s house. Jim occasionally raised his face to the cloudless sky and basked in the sun like some lizard. The sweet, musky aroma of pollen and earth carried in the meagre breeze, ruffling Jim’s hair across the nape of his neck.  
  
The world felt both still, and not at all. Jim wished silently that they could continue this walk forever – just see where it took them.  
  
Beneath the warming rays of light, something swelled and bloomed within his chest. The feeling left him full and free – invigorated. Jim was pretty sure this was happiness.  _Weird_.  
  
Spock’s voice was like gunfire, jolting Jim from his reverie. “T’Pring.”  
  
A cultured, husky voice replied quickly. “Spock.”  
  
Jim found himself a stone’s throw away from what had to be the most beautiful woman – alien, girl, Vulcan? – he had ever seen. That fragile, willowy body was draped in heavy foreign robes of royal purple. A high collar buttoned over the pale length of neck, which led to a face that was unforgettable by a blind man’s standards.  
  
Wide cheekbones framed a face of full lips, a delicate nose, severe slashing brows – and her eyes. The colour of a lake in the shade; grey pierced with green. The girl did not even blink at him; in fact, she appeared to be totally unaware of Jim’s presence. She was entirely for Spock.  
  
Jim took in Spock’s white-knuckled grip upon his shoes, and the tightening of his posture. Like this T’Pring was the wrench, and Spock was the bolt. Jim quirked a brow at the mystery chick, and a scowl ingrained itself into his features – but he remained silent for the time being. He did, however, edge territorially towards Spock’s side.  
  
Spock didn’t take a step forward or in retreat. He seemed frozen on the spot, his expression dull as a block of ice. “I –”  
  
“You appear to have forgotten that I was arriving on this day. It is imprudent and disrespectful to treat your guest in such an inattentive fashion.” T’Pring stood before Spock’s home like it was her own personal castle, and she was the queen. No – more like the gargoyle in the turrets.  
  
“I apolo–”  
  
Jim took an instinctive step forward, with his chin inclined in a silent dare. “We lost track of time.”  
  
T’Pring considered Jim stiffly. She blinked once, and then her pretty mouth thinned. “Identify yourself, Human.”  
  
So that’s how it was going to be.  
  
Jim shoved his hand forward in a cocky display to shake hers, even though he understood the proper etiquette. She didn’t deserve formalities – that much, Jim’s instincts could sense. A sharp smile cut through his bland expression. “Jim Kirk. What was your name, again –  _Treepig_?”  
  
T’Pring’s eyebrows didn’t budge, as her gaze fell for a nanosecond on Jim’s extended hand. When she looked up, her withering stare was fixed upon Spock once more. “Spock, you will join me for a midday meal. My body requires nourishment succeeding my travels.”  
  
Jim scratched his tanned stomach lazily. “Well, I’m pretty hungry mys–”  
  
Spock dropped his boots into the dust with a thud. “Jim, you must depart.”  
  
Maybe Jim was hallucinating – heatstroke could do things to a guy. He faced Spock, with eyebrows weighed down in apparent confusion. “What?” he croaked.  
  
T’Pring’s attention finally descended upon Jim like a merciless bird of prey. “Are your auditory senses suboptimal? I request that you depart with haste. My betrothed has obligations to execute that in no way include or require your company.”  
  
 _Betrothed_.  
  
It was to Jim’s credit that he didn’t simply shatter. He wondered distantly if he was becoming more skilled than a Vulcan, with suffocating his emotions. Jim’s eyes stung, his lungs burnt, his hands clenched and cracked.  
  
All Jim had the strength to do was look to Spock – when had it become so natural to search him out?  
  
Spock was unreadable. He was a mirror image of the woman standing across from him – sharp and one-dimensional. “I will comm. you at a later date.”  
  
Right, of course. Pretty Vulcan girl, pretty Vulcan guy –  _logical_.  
  
Jim laughed, but to his ears it sounded more like a dog being kicked. “Don’t bother. See ya.”  
  
Had he not been so sure of the opposite, Jim would have sworn he’d seen a flash of sadness in Spock’s eyes before he turned.  
  
It didn’t matter, either way. Clearly, Jim’s time in the sun had ended. Refusing to overtly acknowledge his shame, Jim still couldn’t help but wonder when he would get used to second place.


	7. Chapter 7

Spock was prepared to execute what Humans deemed as  _grovelling_. His joints felt unnaturally stiff as he departed from his aunt’s farm on foot. The walk would allow him time to muse over what he must do, and what had been done.  
  
T’Pring had inquired into Spock’s current plans with hawkish intensity, and he had informed her that he was going for a walk. He had correctly hypothesised that T’Pring would refuse to join. She had made her distaste for Iowa’s humidity known on several occasions.  
  
Spock did not feel comfortable lying to her or anyone, but it was not a fallacy that he was currently walking. He merely omitted further information.  
  
As the Earth’s sol crept to its zenith in the hazy sky, Spock kept his gaze a mere foot before him. His attention was not on the path, but in the past. Two particular images continued to haunt his memories in the past four days.  
  
The first being Jim’s determined expression of commitment as he assured Spock that he would take care of him. Spock, a Vulcan, who could easily fend for himself without aid. But Jim’s eyes had been bright and earnest, and for some reason Spock realised he would be perfectly content with Jim as his guardian.  
  
The second recollection that plagued even his meditation was a transgression that Spock understood, without a doubt, he would regret for the remainder of his life. The complex look on Jim’s face when the word ‘betrothed’ had sliced through the air. Shock, pain, and rage, then finally, resignation. It had been the final expression which had thwarted Spock’s heartbeat.  
  
Spock had felt bereft from the moment he had entered the house with T’Pring at his side. No amount of sustenance could fill the sickly hollow in his stomach. Endless hours of meditation went to waste in attempts to reconstruct the crumbling edges of his concentration. Guilt was a virus that Spock could not eradicate.  
  
He should have notified Jim earlier of his marital situation. Somewhere amongst the electric guitar and fizzling fireworks, the star-gazing and secret smiles, the jokes and hand-holding, and  _Jim, Jim, Jim_  - Spock had gotten lost. He had been overwhelmed with the foreign beauty of truly belonging somewhere, with someone who held no concern for his lineage or duty or protocol.  
  
Freedom had been too tempting for Spock, and he had grasped at it with disregard for full disclosure.  
  
What remained were a series of lies to unlock, and the inevitable securing of the ever-constricting shackles of his future commitments.  
  
With a firmly resolved state of mind, Spock climbed the rickety porch steps to Jim’s front door and knocked. Towards the back of the estate he could hear music rumbling. Cocking his head, Spock realised that no one would be answering the door.  
  
 _What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end._  
  
Spock allowed himself a single breath of relief. Unnecessarily loud music signalled two conclusions: One, Jim was home. Two, Frank was not.  
  
 _And you could have it all – my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt._  
  
Rather than coming through the front door, Spock waded through the uncut lawn and came to the back entrance. The nearer Spock came, the more insistent the gravelly vocalist crooned.  
  
 _Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair. Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear._  
  
Spock peered through the scuffed windowpane of the rear door. He saw the back of Jim’s head as he faced the stove. Matted, golden hair stuck out at every angle; as if he had slept on it several nights in a row and hadn’t utilised a brush. Grey smoke swirled ethereally through the kitchen from an unknown source.  
  
 _You are someone else. I am still right here._  
  
Swallowing an uncomfortable knot of tension, Spock rapped on the glass. Jim flinched, but did not turn. He did not acknowledge Spock’s presence in any way, but for the bunching of his shoulders. Spock remained silent, waiting. Jim continued his ministrations at the stove.  
  
For the first time since he was four years old, Spock could not calculate how long he waited. Standing so close to Jim and being unable to have him was like starving in front of a feast. It was a negligible amount of minutes before Spock tentatively opened the door and slunk in without permission. The rusty hinges of the frame screeched and announced his arrival.  
  
 _If I could start again a million miles away – I would keep myself. I would find a way._  
  
Spock’s mouth went dry as he studied Jim’s profile. One hip was cocked as he stood before the stove, idly stirring a pot of aromatic red sauce. He was dressed in plaid boxers and a wrinkled white undershirt. His feet were bare, with one toe bruised black and cracked with dried blood. Hanging precariously from his full bottom lip was a stubby cigarette; the angry, red tip smoking gently as it wafted and choked up the kitchen. The room stank of stale smoke, flat alcohol, and the acidic smell of sauce – and Jim.  
  
Beneath it all, Spock could still smell Jim.  
  
The antique radio switched to a light-hearted song about a man named Sue, and Jim made his first movement beyond stirring. Two long fingers came up in the shape of a V and plucked the cigarette from his lips. Protruding his bottom lip and blowing a thin veil of smoke over his face, Jim turned. One arm was crossed protectively over his torso, his hand holding his opposite elbow.  
  
Jim licked his cracked lips and flicked a dark ash to the floor with a single jerk of his thumb. The sickly, sallow bruise across his cheekbone only highlighted the fatigue in Jim’s sunken eyes.  
  
Jim rasped, “ _Whaddayawant_?” and sucked aggressively on the dwindling cylinder.  
  
Spock could only recall Jim’s illogical claim on the Ferris wheel:  _Everything_. The preposterousness of it pressed uncomfortably against Spock’s chest. When had he become so...  _Human_? What had Jim done to him?  
  
“I would be grateful if you allowed me to explain the events of our last encounter.”  
  
Jim breathed a soft laugh through his nose and smoke shot out, giving Spock the impression of more animal than Human. Jim crossed one ankle over the other, leaning back against the stove without care for the steaming pot behind him.  
  
“No need. I think I figured that out pretty easily.” Jim pursed his lips around his cigarette stub, and looked to the ceiling as he blew another puff into the clouds growing above his head. “In retrospect, I shoulda seen it comin’, y’know? People like you don’t just walk around uncalled for.”  
  
“People like me?”  
  
Jim shrugged and shoved the stump of his cigarette into the mouth of a beer can on the counter. “Royalty-types. They like to play around with the commoners and courtesans, but at the end of the day they go back to their castle – back to their beautiful life, with their fuckable spouse and their ignorant existence.”  
  
“ _Ignorant_?” Spock said, before he reigned himself. Each word came with razor-sharp precision. “You do not possess the smallest comprehension of my existence, Jim. My life –”  
  
Jim’s hands clenched the countertop on either side of him. His eyes went cobalt and disturbingly inscrutable. “Oh, that’s fuckin’ hysterical.  _I_  don’t know?  _I_  don’t know what it’s like –”  
  
“As have all the lives of Surakian Vulcans, has been premeditated from birth. We exist –”  
  
“And mine hasn’t? Look at me, Spock –  _this_  is the beginning of the rest of my –”  
  
“On a blueprint of what it is to be a logical, prudent being in this universe of obscenity and ignorance. We are –”  
  
“Life. You might think I’m obscene, but  _fuck_  – look at  _you_! You’re so –”  
  
“The cornerstone of civilisation. T’Pring has been my betrothed from the age of seven. I have no choice –”  
  
“Goddamn repressed that you’re not even  _alive_. Fuck that bitch T’Pring! What about me? What about –”  
  
“In the matter. This is my life,” Spock said quietly, his voice hoarse. “I know no other way to live.”  
  
Jim lunged from the counter and flung himself at Spock with a single fist. The jab caught him on the ear, sending Spock stumbling into the kitchen table with a jumbled sense of surprise. Jim was rounding on him again, eyes bright with fire, his teeth bared in a snarl when Spock caught his wrist.  
  
“ _You_  don’t know any other way to live, Spock?  _You_? Look at me – really fucking look at me!”  
  
Jim yanked has arm away, his breathing coming like an overheated engine. With his nostrils flaring he gestured to his battered, shivering frame with a sweep of his hands.  
  
“This is me –  _this_  is who I am and who I’ll be until the day I die in a ditch, with a bust-in face and a rotted liver. I don’t have one  _legitimate_  direction for my life! I’m stuck here forever, Spock. Don’t you fuckin’  _talk_  to me about your life or your wife,” he said, face growing red. “Don’t come in here acting like I’m some puppy you found abandoned on the side of the road. I’m not some fucking  _pet_  you can play around with, then discard on the front porch when Daddy thinks he’s gonna piss on the carpet.”  
  
Silence bashed through like a punch to the solar plexus.  
  
Jim looked as if he simply might collapse under the weight of his admission. Spock stood a foot away, poised to catch him. His heart palpitated arrhythmically as he processed the meaning behind Jim’s words.  
  
Spock disregarded his own shame at the sound of his voice when he murmured, “Jim.”  
  
“What?” he snapped, and wrapped his arms around himself. “I don’t want your pity. Get the hell out.”  
  
Spock flicked a brow and took a step in approach.  
  
Jim’s eyes widened as he took a step back. “I said get the hell out of here! I don’t fuckin’ _want_  you.”  
  
“Jim.” Spock closed the distance between them, as Jim pressed his back against the counter’s edge. Spock considered those blood-shot blue eyes. He wondered if Jim would assault him again, and then realised it would be worth the risk.  
  
Nothing in Spock’s life had ever been worth a risk.  
  
Spock tenderly brushed the back of his knuckle across Jim’s contused cheekbone, and anger and disillusionment bled through the skin contact.  
  
“I apologise for withholding important information from you. It was never my intention to create a misapprehension between us.”  
  
Jim remained utterly still, his gaze direct and inscrutable, as Spock continued forth. “I had not hypothesised that our relationship would ever border on such reciprocated sentiment. I still find the experience... discordant. You must understand that.”  
  
The only reply was Jim’s narrowed eyes. In the background, a jaunty horn and guitar medley claimed, love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring - bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire.  
  
Spock dropped his hands to his sides, and schooled his face into an expression he hoped did not portray his regret. “In the case of my and T’Pring’s relationship, there is very little I can do to disengage from my duty to her family.”  
  
 _I fell into a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher._  
  
Jim appeared to struggle with this fact. His eyes darkened and glazed, until finally he jerked his gaze up and bit off a quick, “Fine.”  
  
Spock’s brows fell slightly as he scrutinised Jim’s tight expression. “‘Fine’, what? Fine has variable meanings.” Jim refused to extrapolate and Spock further implored, “What is your meaning?”  
  
Jim shrugged, lashes lowering as he stared at Spock’s mouth. His posture completely morphed from his cornered, aggressive stance. He leaned into Spock’s personal space, and their hips bumped gently. Jim’s hands came to their rightful place at the nape of Spock’s neck, and he tugged at a short fistful of hair.  
  
His voice rasped with faded screams and cigarettes. “Just... fine. Let’s forget about it, Spock.”  
  
 _The taste of love is sweet, when hearts like ours meet._  
  
“Forg –”  
  
“ _No._ ” Jim placed the pad of his thumb over Spock’s lips, as his hips rocked invitingly. “Don’t talk about it. I won’t – you won’t – we’ll pretend like she’s not even there, okay? It’s a good plan, isn’t it? We’ll just keep on living with this until we can’t.”  
  
 _I fell for you like a child. Oh, but the fire went wild._  
  
This was a poor plan. This was blatant denial. A trap set by the both of them,  _for_  the both of them.  
  
 _I fell into a burning ring of fire._  
  
The irrational desperation and plaintive hope that spread through Spock from that single press of Jim’s finger told him that Jim would stand for no other decision.  
  
Unsure if he could speak the lie aloud, Spock nodded. His arms came around Jim’s slight waist, with his hands pressing into the small of Jim’s back.  
  
That was the outcome that Jim appeared to desire. With a choked sob – or was it a laugh? – Jim flung himself at Spock, and clung to him tightly with arms, and hands and hungry lips.  
  
Jim murmured, “Missed you,” between their mouths, and Spock experienced a  _need_  that he imagined could bring him to his knees, were he a lesser Vulcan.  
  
 _And it burns, burns, burns – the ring of fire. The ring of fire._  
  
Jim also tasted of ash and nicotine. Spock refused to imagine he made a sour face as he pulled back slightly. He ignored Jim’s whimper.  
  
“You have not always engaged in smoking.” Spock would have smelled and tasted that long ago.  
  
Jim bared his teeth in only the vaguest resemblance of a smile. “I’m a stress smoker. Who are you, the police? Bet you’d look sexy in uniform.”  
  
Spock frowned, and finally looked around the room. An ashtray sat on the counter, congested with crumpled cigarettes. Empty beer cans littered every surface. There looked to be a streak of blood on the floor. And amongst it all was a simmering pot of what Spock could only guess was marinara sauce, of all things.  
  
“You are fully aware of the health hazards of smoking. Furthermore, it is illegal for a minor to purchase cigarettes. It would be wise for you to cease the habit for physical and ethical reasons. Why is there blood on your floor?” Even for the excellent cataloguing system within Spock’s mind, the inquiries were piling atop each other without end.  
  
“ _Oh_ , uh...” Jim frowned, as if he honestly could not recall how blood had appeared on his floor. “An accident.”  
  
Spock felt a twitch in his eye and pointedly relaxed the muscles of his face. “Does afore-mentioned accident also explain the contusion below your eye?”  
  
Jim’s hand fluttered to the spot in question, before he shrugged and ripped himself from Spock’s grasp. “Dropped a wrench on my face. Hey – I almost forgot that I’m making lasagne!” He gestured to the simmering pot.  
  
It became clear to Spock the events of the past two nights were verboten. He begrudgingly moved to the pot to smell its contents. “What is lasagne, and why are you preparing it?”  
  
“Cooking gives me time to think.” Jim’s smile neared something more genuine, and Spock finally sensed the dissipation of their shared tension. “Lasagne is cathartic, because it’s just a lot of repetition. Here,” Jim said, and pulled Spock to the counter by his wrist. “You can help. I promise it’s all Earth Mother friendly.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Er, vegetarian,” Jim said with a crooked grin. He shuffled away, and turned down the radio to a low hum. He began opening and closing cupboards, collecting a few utensils and ingredients from various places.  
  
Spock allowed himself to be schooled in the methodology of creating lasagne. There was much less cooking involved than he had imagined, although he rarely gave the culinary arts any thought. However, the layering of pasta and vegetables and sauce was not the therapeutic aspect.  
  
What relaxed Spock was listening to Jim’s animated voice as he chattered incessantly. A deep, inner calm that Spock could only associate with meditation washed over him with every distracted smile Jim aimed his way.  
  
The curiosity of Jim’s injuries remained, as well as the blood on the floor. But Spock had grown to understand Jim’s mercurial moods, and today Jim would not be answering any questions. The Human had clearly cauterised that topic so completely from his mind that Spock suspected no Vulcan could surpass the skill.  
  
Spock could wait. If it meant waiting with Jim, it was not a hardship. In retrospect, perhaps it was wise to ignore the situation between him and T’Pring. To dwell on the inevitable would only bring unnecessary sorrow.  
  
With an assurance from Jim that Frank would not be home tonight - Spock had yet to meet Jim’s stepfather, and it was apparent that Jim preferred the situation to remain as such - they ate dinner on the couch, in front of the holo-screen. Spock noted with some concern that Jim did not finish his meal, but he did not comment.  
  
Jim appeared to be in good spirits – as if their argument had somehow rejuvenated him. As if raising his voice had been as cathartic as cooking.  
  
Humans were undoubtedly puzzling.  
  
An old film concerning a murderous great white shark flashed across the screen, but Spock ceased to pay it mind while Jim’s head rested heavily on his lap. His breathing was deep and lagged with slumber, his eyelids fluttering with a dream.  
  
Spock allowed the muscles of his face to relax, and his lips curved an iota. Carding his fingers through Jim’s long, sandy hair, Spock meditated on how he came to be here. How he came to be with Jim.  
  
Logically, he understood the process of time and events which led to this point. But on some level of consciousness, he was learning that Vulcan logic could not control his every Human reaction. Spock had come to realise – perhaps on this very day – that Jim had metaphorically grabbed his heart, and was yanking him through life by the strings of his emotions.  
  
Although Spock debated and argued, the truth of it was this: He enjoyed it. Even the times in which the power of his unexplored pathos left him feeling reeling or terrified or awkward or breathless, they all amounted to life experiences. And what aspects created a proper Vulcan, if not the drive to explore life in new and profound ways?  
  
Jim hummed and shifted in his sleep, and turned so that his face nuzzled against Spock’s stomach. The look of fondness Spock draped across Jim’s prone form withered however, when he noticed a strange discolouration on the arm curled against Jim’s side.  
  
Spock ran a fingertip down the lightly muscled bicep, and travelled past Jim’s elbow and to his bony wrist.  _Twelve_. Spock counted twelve fading, oval prints along Jim’s arm. The logical conclusion that Jim had been roughly handled in some manner had such a flare of fury igniting in Spock’s chest, that he was forced to close his eyes and breathe for a full minute.  
  
But the peace did not last for long, as the unmistakable crack of the front screen door had Spock freezing. Heavy footsteps announced their approach to the front room. Spock’s fingers tightened on Jim’s wrist, causing him to stir in his sleep.  
  
“Jim,” Spock whispered urgently, “someone has arri –”  
  
“Who th’ _fuck’re_  you?”  
  
A large man stood in the doorway. Taller than Spock, and stinking of gasoline and acrid alcohol. Spock could only discern a sneer beneath the battered trucker hat.  
  
“Wait, I got it now. You’re that Vulcan who’s been dickin’ around with my son, yeah?”  
  
Jim was up from the couch without Spock realising he had awoken. Animosity rose off him like heat waves from the pavement. “I’m not your fuckin’  _son_ , you drunken piece of shit. And  _Spock_  is an ambassador’s son. You’d do well to treat him as such, unless you  _want_  to start shit with extraterrestrials who could  _snap you in half_.”  
  
Spock was on his feet the moment Frank took a step forward. He remained at Jim’s right hand, his face bland and indistinguishable despite the disgust that roiled through him at the sight of this man.  
  
Frank did not appear to consider Jim’s words. Instead he laughed, and grabbed at Jim’s arm in a manner that immediately illuminated the source of Jim’s bruises. “Kid, y’should be more concerned that  _I’m_  gonna snap  _you_  in half.”  
  
Distantly, Spock heard something crack in his head. The jagged splinter travelled down his spine, and Spock finally comprehended the idiom of ‘seeing red’. Frank was up against the wall in seven-point-six seconds. Spock’s hand gripped his thick neck with an iron clench of fingers, and his teeth were bared at Frank like an uncivilised animal.  
  
It was not until the roaring in his ears faded that he heard the sound of his own snarls – and the sound of Frank gasping for breath as Jim yanked at his shoulders, pleading for his stepfather’s release.  
  
“Spock – Spock! Let him go. Jesus Christ, you’re gonna fuckin’  _kill_  him - stop!”  
  
Frank’s purple visage wavered before Spock’s vision. As if someone had simply discovered Spock’s reset button, he halted and blinked, dropping Frank to his knees. Spock stared blankly at his hands, now utterly oblivious to the wheezing at his feet and the swearing at his elbow.  
  
Had he truly just struck out towards a human being so aggressively? Was he no better than the bullies of his childhood? What was more awful – the fact that he’d needlessly attacked a man, or that he did not feel shame for his actions? This was the second time Spock had jumped to Jim's defense - and both times, for reasons he could not ascertain, he did not experience regret.  
  
A warm hand cupped his cheek and guided Spock’s glassy gaze to Jim’s face. Waves of emotion lapped at him through the touch, confusing and disjointed.  
  
 _Concern_  – _pride_  – _panic_.  
  
“Spock, you need to go,” Jim intoned quietly. His eyes flickered over Spock’s shoulder, where Frank stumbled to his feet.  
  
 _Fear_.  
  
Jim was frightened. That was an entirely foreign experience. Spock’s lips parted in befuddlement.  
  
“I –”  
  
“ _Home_ , Spock. I can’t deal with –” Jim shook his head, his eyes flashing with frustration. “This is why you can’t meet him. Get out, before you make this worse. I’ll – I’ll call you.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“ _Go_.”  
  
Spock flicked a glance towards Frank, who was gasping and lumbering to his feet. “I will not leave you here, Jim.”  
  
“You will,” Jim said distractedly, a note of panic hitching his voice. He slapped a hand on Spock’s chest and quickly began to back him out of the room.  
  
“What’ll you do once you’ve beat the shit outta him, huh? What’ll your  _parents_  do when they inevitably hear about it? What do you think  _Frank_ ’ll do? Use your Vulcan brain for more than equations, Spock. Think damage control. Goodnight.”  
  
“Jim, no –”  
  
Spock had somehow ended up on the porch with a door slammed in his face.  
  
He remained staring at the panelling, his muscles painfully tense from his first experience with an actual case of child abuse. He had read about the phenomena, but had always disregarded the event as a long abandoned, barbaric practice. The concept did not even exist on Vulcan.  
  
Yet, here he was - lurking in the shadows, and listening to the muffled yells and thumps from beyond the door. Something crashed within. Spock clenched his fists and distantly heard his own jaw crack from clamping shut. His insides cried out for justice that Spock was growing to understand would not come.  
  
As tragic as Jim’s rationale had been, Spock could not devise another method to eradicate the dilemma. He could contact the authorities, but even if Frank were tried and convicted it was impossible to be certain what would become of Jim. Spock found himself wishing to contact foster care anyway, but the image of Jim’s pleading face kept his thoughts paralysed in the present.  
  
An unfamiliar wet heat fogged Spock’s vision. He leaned his back against the door and slid to the ground.  
  
Was this what it meant to be a Vulcan? Stand aside from chaotic, Human affairs and watch with a disdainful eye? Remain uninvolved and unemotional at all times? Spock did not think he could exist like that.  
  
Long after the frantic noises had abated, Spock sat on that porch. He picked splinters of wood from beneath his nails; the consequence of digging his fingers into the planks.  
  
Spock wondered how, when the time inevitably came, he would be able to settle that suffocating mask over his face and turn his back on Jim.  
  
Or had this been the first step? True, he had not wished to leave, but Jim’s threats of repercussions had admittedly given Spock a moment of pause. It was a shameful fact, but true and logical nonetheless. Spock did not know whether to feel like an inadequate Human or an adequate Vulcan.  
  
 _You are neither human nor Vulcan, and therefore have no place in this universe_.  
  
Perhaps he was neither.  
  
He was simply Spock. Jagged pieces of himself that would not fit together.  
  
When even the night went still and numb, Spock walked home.  
  


*

  
_Dup, dup, dup_.  
  
Spock awoke instantaneously to the sound of fingertips upon glass. He sat up in bed and blinked owlishly at the face peering in. His heart clenched.  
  
“Jim?”  
  
Spock tossed the blankets to the floor in his haste to open the window.  
  
“Jim.”  
  
Jim’s split lip broke and oozed dark blood as he grinned and climbed inside. “Good thing your room is on the first floo –” He gasped softly when Spock pulled him in to a fierce embrace.  
  
“It was wrong of me to leave.”  
  
Jim laughed and squirmed out of the hug. “Don’t be stupid. I was the one who told you to go. And I said I’d call, so here I am.”  
  
He opened his arms in a grand gesture, and Spock felt his blood go cold. A kaleidoscope of colour smudged and smeared his face and arms. Jim was the perfect portrait of cruelty. It was all the more painful to witness when he was smiling as such.  
  
“Jim...” Spock lightly cuffed Jim’s wrists with his fingers and led him to sit on the bed. “You cannot allow this to happen any longer.”  
  
“You haven’t really convinced yourself it’s that simple, have you, Spock?” Jim’s lips curled in an expression that was a frown, but was not. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”  
  
“Anywhere but here would be more logical.”  
  
“Run away like my brother did? Leave my mom with the guilt of knowing she’s lost  _all_  the men in her life? No.” Jim shook his head, with a glint of steel in his eyes. “I won’t do that to her. It’s just three more years until I’m outta that house – or he is.”  
  
Spock did not know how to reply. After everything Jim had been through, he remained willing to endure it for a woman who visited once a year.  
  
There was that edge of pride that sharpened Jim’s every mannerism. He refused to give up his image of the self-sufficient boy who was a man.  
  
Spock was beginning to comprehend why Jim relied on himself and no one else. There could be no one else. Everything Jim had created for himself, he had created by himself. Spock could not yet say that of his own accomplishments.  
  
“If that is your decision, I cannot stop you.” Spock concluded hollowly, his fingers still cradling Jim’s wrists.  
  
“Obviously.” Jim yawned broadly.  
  
“Have you slept?”  
  
“Lil’ bit,” Jim murmured, and leaned forward to rest his forehead upon Spock’s shoulder.  
  
The cold, purple dawn seeped through the windows. Spock had arrived home at twenty-three minutes past twenty-four hundred hours. Both his aunt and T’Pring had been waiting on him with sour faces and reprimands of worry. Spock rarely forgot to check in.  
  
He had taken the scolding in stony silence. When they had concluded, he curtly reminded them that he was eighteen and fully capable of fending for himself. He had then locked his bedroom door and flung himself into a restless sleep plagued by visions of Jim.  
  
“Lay down, Jim.”  
  
He did, without argument.  
  
Quietly as possible, Spock slipped into the hall and to the bathroom to procure a miniature dermal regenerator. When Spock returned, Jim was splayed across the bed with eyes shut and bruised lips parted.  
  
The dawn light swayed towards pink, and bathed his body in a softness that would never really be a part of a person like Jim Kirk.  
  
Spock’s fingers tightened on the regenerator. He approached the bed slowly, his heart thrumming a wild pattern that had his breath catching. Something he identified within himself as Vulcan disapproval was thrown aside, as Spock leaned over the still form and kissed Jim as if he were the most breakable possession in the world.  
  
Jim hummed against his mouth, his cool lips flooding Spock with a thick, syrupy wave of _trust – exhaustion – happiness_.  
  
There was no room for sadness here, Spock thought as he perched at the edge of the bed. Jim’s eyelashes fluttered but did not lift. Spock brushed his lips across Jim’s eyelids, kissed his contused jaw, abraded cheekbone, scraped eyebrow. He fed off the selfless affection that radiated from Jim’s skin and touched each bruise with his mouth, with his heart.  
  
Where Jim ached, Spock swore he hurt as well.  
  
Jim opened his eyes when Spock reluctantly pulled away and watched him with that bright gaze, which never seemed to wane in their intensity. He did not blink as Spock gently coaxed his shirt off. He canted his hips when Spock tugged at his jeans and shoes and undergarments.  
  
Spock would pause with every revealed bruise, his fingers lingering here and there; a kiss on Jim’s hip.  
  
There were no words when Spock turned on the regenerator. He set about healing every bruise and blemish, until nothing remained but unmarred skin and tantalising freckles. Jim’s languid, hungry gaze and his growing, heavy erection gave more than a hint to how quickly he had healed.  
  
Jim sat up, testing his joints with a lazy roll of his shoulders.  
  
Spock swallowed, watching the play of muscle strain along the column of Jim’s neck. Jim was uninhibited to a fault and careless with his beauty – he simply invited Spock to relent to his baser emotions and appreciate him.  
  
When they were together, Spock did not feel like jagged pieces. When Jim was near, everything inside Spock seemed to fit; just as Jim’s lips slotted so perfectly against his own. Jim made Spock whole, and he thought – for the brief instant that Jim muffled a sigh against Spock’s collarbone – that he might make Jim feel the same.  
  
Spock’s clothes were scattered in the fray to slide naked flesh against flesh. Fingers splayed across ribs, thighs wedged between knees, and elbows sunk into the mattress as Jim writhed beneath him with parted legs and lips.  
  
Spock drowned himself in Jim, as he clumsily feasted upon his mouth while his fingertips tasted the distinct flavours of emotion seeping through Jim’s pores. Spock scooted down Jim’s body - his hands gripping at hipbones, then at shivering thighs, and finally gripping the base of Jim’s erection with a firm hand. Jim hissed, his body pitching forward, and Spock’s own stomach flipped with anticipation.  
  
Despite their previous encounter in the pond, Spock had never been this close to Jim. He wanted to experience everything. He nuzzled his nose into those dusky curls, breathed in Jim’s unmistakable musk. Jim keened helplessly when Spock’s cheek bumped and brushed the throbbing crown.  
  
Spurred on by the fingernails biting into his scalp, Spock lapped at Jim’s testicles in long, languid curls of tongue. Jim’s gasp was almost inaudible, but his hips rose to meet Spock’s mouth in encouragement.  
  
Spock bit back a groan as he bore a fresh wave of Jim’s pleasure. And when Spock laved a hot stripe along the crease of Jim’s inner thigh, he was staggered by the slam of ecstasy Jim threw at him.  
  
“God Spock, please,” Jim whined – or was that in Spock’s mind? It made no difference.  
  
Spock flicked his tongue over the leaking head of Jim’s erection, sampling and savouring with tiny, curious licks. When Spock could no longer withstand the torture of his own restraint, he engulfed Jim’s pulsing length into his mouth. Spock was fairly certain he had not previously heard a human utter the noise that Jim had.  
  
“Want you, want you,” was a slurred mantra on Jim’s tongue, and Spock’s plans of attempted finesse and seduction were obliterated. Sucking enthusiastically at Jim’s erection, Spock absorbed the memory of his taste, and cached every scrap of affection and bliss Jim unwittingly projected.  
  
 _Yes, yes, yes_. Spock felt whole and glowing and Jim was the light inside of him – fuelling him and filling him with this fire. Every wet coil of Spock’s tongue sent a loop of rapture ricocheting through Jim’s arching body, and back into Spock.  
  
Every punch and pang of pleasure that plunged through Jim left Spock stupefied. He hazily wondered how such a thing was possible, as he hallowed his cheeks around Jim’s engorged erection. A solid punch of gratification went straight to his stomach.  
  
“Spock, I need –” Jim yelped as Spock instinctively bobbed his head in a hard, erratic cadence, where his teeth grazed and caught the sensitive head with every wet thrust. Jim’s palms grappled along Spock’s shoulders with angry nails and insistent force. Spock clenched at Jim’s thighs and sucked with increasing fervour and euphoria.  
  
Jim’s fingers skimmed Spock’s meld-points by accident – and there was only white, blinding light shattering behind Spock’s eyelids. Spock moaned, his mouth packed to the throat with Jim. Distantly, he sensed Jim’s strangled cry and simultaneous ripple of release into his mouth.  
  
Spock screwed his eyes shut against the cacophony of spasms that rocked his body to his tingling toes. He found he could do nothing more than ride the waves that wracked his muscles, as he found that startling release and sucked Jim dry.  
  
Spock’s limbs felt cumbersome. They buzzed with such hypersensitivity that he physically flinched at Jim’s caress across his shoulders. Spock heaved a breath, shook his head, and pillowed his cheek on Jim’s sweat-slick thigh.  
  
Jim’s fingertips traced the tip of Spock’s ear –  _fondness_  – awakening a fresh batch of quivering nerves. Spock swallowed what may have been a purr, and pressed a half-hearted kiss to Jim’s leg.  
  
Jim’s voice was husky and slow. “Was that normal?”  
  
“You experienced it as well?”  
  
“Didn’t take a genius t’see you were getting off on more than suckin’ dick,” Jim mumbled, trailing off with a yawn.  
  
“I am at a loss for explanation.”  
  
“For once.”  
  
Spock’s lips twitched. “Go to sleep, Jim.”  
  
He already had.


	8. Chapter 8

“Spock?” A feminine voice came from behind the door, followed by a knock.  
  
Jim jerked from sleep with a snort. He squinted against the bright afternoon light and gravitated towards the nearest warm body.  
  
Spock had sat up in bed, his hair rumpled and his eyes alert. He spoke clearly and shifted to move from the bed. “I am here, Aunt Anna.”  
  
Jim flipped and rolled until his head rested upon Spock’s lap. He looked up at Spock’s consternate expression and offered a sleepy smile.  
  
Aunt Anna’s voice filtered into the room. “It’s almost noon, Spock. Are you all right?”  
  
Spock pushed at the side of Jim’s head in attempts to dislodge him from his lap, but Jim stifled a laugh and lurched up. Spock sent him a silent look of admonishment before shifting forward to stand. “I assure you that I am well.”  
  
“Well, if you say so.”  
  
Of course, Jim wouldn’t have any of that. He pressed his chest against Spock’s back and slung his arms around his neck. Spock promptly flopped backwards and sat on the bed, his hands snapping to Jim’s in attempts to pry him away. Jim pointedly ignored him and hummed softly while placing a kiss behind Spock’s ear.  
  
“I  _ahmm_.” Spock’s assurance was slurred as Jim’s fingers slid down his torso to swirl in his happy-trail. Jim muffled another laugh against Spock’s shoulder.  
  
Aunt Anna had apparently  _not_  left yet. “Is something going on in there?”  
  
“No. My previous night’s rest proved insufficient and I have woken late. Please excuse my absence this morning.”  
  
Spock whipped his hand over his shoulder to lightly slap Jim on the nose like a bad puppy. Jim nipped at his fingers.  
  
There was a significant pause at the door and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Spock angled a glower at Jim.  
  
Jim beamed. “Um, good morning?”  
  
“You are highly distracting.”  
  
“Oh? Then you won’t be surprised if I...” Jim’s fingers snuck beneath the sheets pooled at Spock’s waist and fluttered over his cock. Spock hissed breath, and Jim smirked triumphantly against the nape of Spock’s neck.  
  
Before Jim could fully comprehend Spock’s intent, he was flat on the mattress with an intense Vulcan on top of him. His heart hammered once, hard against his ribcage, as if it simply wanted to tear from his chest and lay in Spock’s palms.  
  
The imagery was terrifying and painful – and fuck, Jim wanted it.  
  
No one looked at him like this. Like Spock wanted all of him – bruises included. Jim didn’t know why, but there it was. He wasn’t about the walk away from the one good thing in his life right now. Hell, maybe the  _only_  good thing he would experience if he didn’t live long enough to enjoy all that the galaxy had to offer.  
  
Jim knew he should safeguard himself. He knew this would eventually lead to regrets and heartache and a consequent drinking binge that might just rival Frank’s alcohol tolerance levels.  
  
But – fuck it. There would only be one Spock. There would only be this one summer. And this wouldn’t last forever.  
  
Jim’s heart constricted painfully in his chest, but he smiled anyway. He reached up and swept his thumb along the severe incline of one eyebrow.  
  
Only one Spock – who was pinning Jim to the mattress with the hard lines of his body and that fathomless black stare. Jim raised his eyebrows expectantly, with his grin growing cocky.  
  
“Are you trying to intimidate me? Because it’s only giving me a hard-on.”  
  
Spock gave the desired reaction – he huffed with exasperation and placed a silencing kiss on Jim’s waiting lips. They melted into each other for a moment, and Jim could pretend he was normal and  _this_  was normal.  
  
When Spock propped up on his elbows to peer down at Jim, his cheeks were flushed like spring grass.  
  
“Depart by window and knock at the front door.”  
  
Jim blinked. “Say what, Shakespeare?”  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow. “You do not accept my invitation to lunch?”  
  
Jim floundered for a reply. “Ah – yes. Sure. Okay.”  
  
They stared at each other for a couple seconds, and Jim couldn’t help but cant his hips and press his interested dick against Spock’s thigh.  
  
Spock’s eyes darkened, but he calmly said, “Leave my room now, Jim.”  
  
“Who are you, the captain?” Jim said good-naturedly.  
  
He rolled out from under Spock anyway and set about collecting his discarded clothes. Jim yanked on his boxers and jeans, hopping on one foot as he watched Spock dress from the corner of his eye. Every movement was fluid and purposeful.  
  
Jim’s head got stuck in his shirt.  
  
Spock came over and efficiently tugged it down. Their eyes met and held – Jim was the one to look down and away in search of his sneakers.  
  
The events of the previous night were smeared and unclear now. Like a grotesque painting that someone had streaked their hand across while the colour was still damp. Some moments were still clear and vibrant, while others bled to obscurity. That canvas had been painted over dozens of times, and with each past incident of violence the picture only slightly varied.  
  
Of course, with the circumstance of last night there had been a significant difference in the composition. Spock.  
  
Jim shook off his recollection of the previous evening. No point in dwelling or analysing. He wouldn’t even allow himself to linger on Spock’s volatile reaction to Frank and the way he’d rushed to the rescue. He’d acted as if Jim had meant something – as if he belonged to Spock.  
  
His delusions were too optimistic, even for Jim.  
  
Especially for Jim.  
  
Still...  
  
“Thanks for, uh,” Jim paused, awkwardly turning words on his tongue. “Everything. Last night – it was –”  
  
Spock was standing there, just patiently looking at him. So perfect and complete and really fucking naïve for all his intellect.  
  
Jim didn’t know what to do with someone like that. Someone  _real_  and true. Jim was oftentimes frank and blunt, but not honest like Spock was.  
  
“Yeah,” Jim finished lamely. He felt like an idiot for even attempting to say anything genuinely heartfelt.  
  
So he grinned like he didn’t care. He saluted Spock, turned and scrambled out of the window. The minute his feet hit the dusty earth, he didn’t look back – just meandered around to the front of the house with hands shoved in his pockets.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
Jim startled. He would recognise that cultured, inflectionless tone anywhere. He turned and regarded T’Pring. This was only the second time he’d encountered the stunning Vulcan, and her striking visage propelled Jim back an awful three days.  
  
“Uh, hi. I was just coming to visit.”  
  
T’Pring’s slim hands emerged from their long bell sleeves and folded before her. “Correct my assumption if I am in error, but it appears as if you have already visited and are now departing.”  
  
“No, I was just about to knock. Spock invited me over for lunch.”  
  
Today her eyes were the colour of sand, merciless and scorching in their intensity. “I see.”  
  
Jim was sure they both saw the same thing. But he refused to shift awkwardly. Instead he purposely slouched and looked around, bored with the conversation.  
  
T’Pring regarded him like a statue. “James Kirk, what are you intentions with my betrothed?”  
  
“Sorry –  _what_?”  
  
Jim wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected that. T’Pring didn’t seem like the type to play coy.  
  
Her eyebrows raised a fraction. “Are you apologising for something?”  
  
“I – ah,  _no_ , I’m not.” Jim folded his arms across his chest and took a step towards T’Pring. Fuck, she was nearly as tall as Spock. So annoying. “Spock and I are friends, all right? We don’t need you to monitor our relationship.”  
  
“I am not monitoring. I have simply heard that you spend an inordinate amount of time with Spock.”  
  
“How about  _he_  spends a lot of time with  _me_? Has it occurred to you that he might  _like_ me?”  
  
T’Pring didn’t even nod. “It has. Hence my line of inquiry.”  
  
Jim rolled his eyes. “Right. Well, to answer your question – I don’t have any intentions. I’m just having fun, and so is Spock.” He turned to leave.  
  
“And by ‘fun’, you infer coitus.”  
  
Oh my  _God_.  
  
Jim turned and couldn’t help but gawk at T’Pring’s stone-cold expression. Technically they hadn’t had  _sex_. A mutual hand-job and a blow-job that made Jim see colours did not  _coitus_ make. “And what if I do?”  
  
“You are aware that Vulcans do not take physical relationships lightly. Or as you say, ‘for fun’.”  
  
He shrugged. “I guess.”  
  
They hadn’t really discussed it or anything. It just kind of  _happened_  – like breathing. Jim didn’t know any other way to be around Spock.  
  
Something flitted across T’Pring’s features, but it was too muted to comprehend. “Then logically you are aware that what you are doing is morally and ethically wrong by Vulcan social standards.”  
  
“What? No, I –”  
  
“And you are conscious that by nurturing an intimate rapport with my betrothed, you are condemning him to future mental duress and almost definite ridicule should his situation be unearthed. He will be definitively shunned and shamed in name and position. ”  
  
“Fuck, no. I wouldn’t do that on purp–”  
  
Each word projected from T’Pring’s lips were like bee stings. “And if you are mindful of these inevitabilities, you must logically have come to the conclusion that your presence in Spock’s life is something akin to a poison.”  
  
Jim took a step back, his face burning. “No.”  
  
T’Pring’s eyes flashed. “You are a poison, James Kirk, son of no one.”  
  
Oh,  _hell_  no. Jim bared his teeth and bunched his hands. “Don’t you open your fucking mouth and act like you know –”  
  
“I have known Spock for eleven years, two months, and four days. I have come to terms with his ineffectuality as a Vulcan. I have accepted that he will never be an ideal companion, but I also concede that we are mentally compatible and that he will be an adequate mate. Because of his disadvantages, it is probable that he will constantly work to be a stronger man.”  
  
It was T’Pring’s turn to approach Jim. She, like Spock, was all smooth grace and subtlety – but the venom in her eyes sapped any of the beauty she might have shared with Spock. “And now I come to this savage planet under the assumption that Spock will have reconciled his Human half with the Vulcan, only to find that he has allowed himself to become almost entirely Human. It is a most distasteful revelation.”  
  
“Bitch,” Jim spat. He’d fully collected himself now. He was ready to do this. No one would talk about Spock like he was some deficient freak of nature. “Spock has a right to decide how to live his life. Everyone does. What’s that bullshit you guys preach? Infinite diversity in infinite combinations?  _Fuck_ , you’re a hypocrite.”  
  
T’Pring didn’t flinch. “Spock has made his choice. He follows the path of Surak. It would be illogical to disregard certain aspects of his culture simply because he does not prefer them. One either is or is not a Vulcan. You have caused him to lose his path, and thusly skewed my future as well.”  
  
“Don’t put this on me, honey.” Jim’s smile was razor sharp. “Spock does what he pleases, and so do I. I can’t help it if I’m irresistible to half the galaxy.”  
  
T’Pring’s eyes widened very slightly. Her voice was so hushed that it was nearly carried off by the breeze. She almost sounded astounded.  
  
“You have given no conscious thought to Spock’s future, have you, Mr. Kirk? You have no care for how he will be ostracised should his disposition remain as it is. How my name, in turn, will be sullied by simple connection. You completely disregard the effort his father has put in to his education, his training, and his personal growth. You sneer at the difficulties his mother has faced by deliberately raising her half-Human child as a Vulcan. Everything they have struggled to attain with Spock, and everything Spock has accomplished as a valid member of our community, means nothing to you.”  
  
Jim could only stare, his breath like needles in his lungs.  _No_ , was all he could think.  _No, you’re wrong. You’re_  –  
  
“You are worse than a Human,” T’Pring said with damnation in her eyes. “You have no legitimate concern for any being but yourself. Therefore, you are entirely alone. You do not even belong with your own race.”  
  
“ _T’Pring_.”  
  
Jim whirled at the barely repressed fury he heard in Spock’s voice.  _Shit_. How long had he been stranding there? By the black look on his face and the clench of his fists, long enough.  
  
“Spock –”  
  
“Spock –” Both T’Pring and Jim said in tandem, with one emotionless and the other worried. Jim flicked a glare over his shoulder, and then retrained his eyes on Spock.  
  
T’Pring spoke before Jim could even fathom what to say. “I am pleased that you decided to make your presence known. I was debating whether or not you would do so.”  
  
How had she...  
  
“Spock?” Jim snapped, sounding more accusatory than he’d hoped.  
  
Spock couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to glower at T’Pring or search Jim’s face for answers. He swallowed softly.  
  
“We have a fledging marital bond. Although I have kept my thoughts distant from her, she remains able to sense my presence within a certain vicinity.”  
  
“ _Marital bond_?” Jim said. He scrubbed his hands over his face and muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ.” In the distant depths of his mind he reminded himself never to get tangled up in drama like this ever again. “Um, this is –”  
  
Spock didn’t seem to particularly care what Jim had to say. He appeared to have focused on T’Pring.  
  
“You have no right to speak so freely to Jim. I empathise with your disappointment at having an inadequate bondmate, but you may not release your frustration on one who is not involved.”  
  
“You have allowed him to become involved,” T’Pring replied with a quirk of a brow. “You must take responsibility where it is due. The repercussions of both your and James Kirk’s actions fall to you. But it is not too late to mend your life, Spock. You are not beyond the point of retribution. You may still be S’chn T’gai Spock, son of Sarek, Ambassador to Earth.”  
  
“And offspring to Lady Amanda Grayson, a Human,” Spock said icily. “I will never be the Vulcan you wish me to be. I wish that I c–” he cut himself off and shook his head.  
  
Jim aimed a narrow look his way. Was Spock truly about to say that he wished he  _was_  the type of Vulcan T’Pring wanted?  
  
A spike of fear stabbed at Jim’s chest. “ _Spock_. Don’t listen to this shit. Don’t let anyone walk over you like they’re superior – like they own you. You’re better than that. You’re better than  _this_  fuckin’ Vulcan, and that’s for certain.”  
  
“Observe how he refers to you, Spock,” T’Pring said smoothly. “He  _orders_  you to make your own decisions. He is a hypocrite. By complying with his demands, you succumb to his domination over you. I do not wish to control you Spock. I merely wish to guide you to your rightful place as an esteemed and respected member of the Vulcan race.”  
  
“Oh, shut  _up_. Who  _are_  you, a stereotypical villain?”  
  
Jim flicked off T’Pring over his shoulder and met Spock in long, swaggering strides. Doubt was plastered clear as day across Spock’s face, and that terrified Jim more than he could fathom. Spock’s indecision  _hurt_.  
  
“Spock.” Jim cupped the back of Spock’s neck. He frowned up at those wide, doe-eyes. “All my life I’ve let Frank beat me down, and you can see what kind of shitty, useless person that’s made me. Don’t let the same thing happen to you. Fuck this marital bond, fuck Vulcan. Be whoever you want to be and let’s  _get out of here_.”  
  
Spock blinked rapidly. His voice was hoarse. “What are you offering, Jim?”  
  
“I don’t know – something,  _anything_  better than this.” Jim’s hands went jittery and fluttered down to Spock’s chest. He fisted the front of Spock’s shirt, and Jim inwardly cringed at his own pathetic desperation. “You’re brilliant – I’m brilliant. We could do whatever we wanted with our lives, if it weren’t for the assholes trying to mould us into the people we’re not.”  
  
“I am unsure  _who_  I am, Jim.” Spock looked profoundly saddened by this admission. “There is no place for me on Earth or Vulcan. I must carve one.”  
  
“Then make one with  _me_ , Spock.”  
  
From behind him, T’Pring’s voice raised half an octave. “Do not act rashly, Spock. Do not shame me. Do not shame yourself. You have no profitable future with this Human. He is nothing.”  
  
Spock flinched, and Jim’s eyes bugged as he swore he heard something like a growl rumble from Spock’s throat. Jim could only yelp as Spock clenched one of his hands and almost physically  _dragged_  him towards – who the hell knew where.  
  
“Come, Jim.”  
  
“Yeah – uh – don’t really have a choice in the matter,” Jim said as he skipped a few times to keep up with Spock.  
  
Their fingers intertwined, and a bundle of warmth in Jim’s palm spread through his limbs. He couldn’t hold back the grin as he threw a look over his shoulder and winked at the shrinking form of Tree Pig, the Bitch from Outer Space.  
  
They walked in silence for a while, with Jim following Spock’s lead without question. That in itself was bordering on the realm of madness. When had Jim ever done anything for someone other than himself? When had he basically offered to spend  _his life_  with another person? When had he learned to implicitly  _trust_?  
  
The answer was actually a lot easier than he imagined it would be – since Spock.  
  
Okay, they were definitely in the middle of a random wheat field right now. Midday sun folded them in gold from sky to earth. Jim could trust Spock, but that didn’t mean he was going to keep quiet.  
  
“What are we – er, where are we going?”  
  
Spock stopped, staring straight ahead, his eyes hard. Jim realised he had been walking on autopilot. Just going through the motions and blowing off steam the silent, Vulcan way.  
  
The  _Vulcan_  way.  
  
Jim ignored the twinge in his chest. “Spock?”  
  
Spock whipped around to face him. Both hands came up to cup Jim’s cheeks, and for the first time in weeks Jim found himself unable to read that depthless gaze.  
  
“Okay, the strong and silent aura really loses its charm after a wh–  _mmf_ ”  
  
Jim was effectively silenced with a kiss that had his toes curling. Slow, deliberate flicks of tongue coaxed his mouth open. Jim swore he heard his heart sigh when Spock tilted Jim’s chin up so he could press his hot lips to the pulse beneath his jaw.  
  
Just as reverently as Jim had been kissed, Spock enveloped him into his arms. Jim stood a bit stiff, with his hands at Spock’s hips and his face pressed against Spock’s armpit. Jim was not a hugger. Not for anyone. It was too... too...  
  
Oh, to hell with it.  
  
Jim slipped his hands tentatively around Spock’s thin waist and gave an experimental squeeze. When Spock silently laid his cheek atop Jim’s head, he was officially done.  
  
Dammit. He  _loved_  Spock.  _Loved_. Whatever that meant.  
  
And with that halting realisation came another, more sobering one.  
  
T’Pring had been right. Not about everything – and not about the manner in which she’d basically torn Jim a new one in her desperation to keep Spock in her clutches. She’d been dead-on about one fact, though.  
  
Jim was selfish. He always had been. And for the longest time that hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and anyone with half a brain knew that. Jim had long ago learned to be self-sufficient.  
  
But now there was someone else Jim wanted to care for – and that was all shades of exhilarating and frightening.  
  
Exhilarating, because this level of affection and loyalty was all fresh and new and shiny to Jim. He wanted to bask in the glow of the one emotion Jim had told himself he would never experience. He had the urge to do what was right for Spock, and help him realise the extraordinary person that he was.  
  
Frightening, because when Jim realised that he wanted to encourage Spock to reach his full potential, he arrived at an unshakable conclusion:  
  
Jim had to let Spock go. There was no way he’d flourish in Jim’s company.  
  
 _You are a poison, James Kirk._  
  
Just running away from everything – it wouldn’t be enough in the future. Not for Spock and not for Jim. Especially for Spock, who had so much ahead of him despite the poorly matched marriage.  
  
 _Shit_  – maturity really sucked.  
  
Well... standing around being depressing was a waste of time. Jim had a Vulcan clinging to him like he was the most important thing in the world. The sun was shining. He was in love. That was nothing to scoff at.  
  
Jim slid his hands between their chests and reached up to lace his fingers behind Spock’s neck. The light hit Spock’s warm gaze at an angle that had amber and gold flashing like sparks in the dark.  
  
These days, Jim was seeing the light a lot more than he’d used to. Maybe it wouldn’t last – in fact, it definitely wouldn’t. Nothing good ever did. But Jim had learned long ago to grab onto those tiny flecks of light when he could; put them in a jar like summer fireflies and marvel at them until they burnt out.  
  
Burnt out fireflies. The year of the cicadas.  
  
Everything ended. But it was damn good while it lasted.  
  
Jim tugged at the silky hairs on the back of Spock’s neck and offered a crooked smile.  _My Vulcan_  he thought, before he rose to his toes and laid a soft, coaxing kiss upon Spock’s lips.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Spock said hoarsely against Jim’s mouth, and for once Jim knew what it  _really_  felt like to be the centre of attention.  
  
What it felt like to be someone’s sun.  
  
There was poetry with the grace that Jim encircled Spock’s waist and guided them both to their knees. But Jim had never been a writer or a particularly skilled orator, and so all he could think was this: He didn’t believe in destiny – but if he did, he’d say that this singular moment in time was the only thing he  _had_  to do in his life to feel complete.  
  
Jim flopped back into the golden grass, the whisper and hiss of the stalks in the breeze like the soundtrack of this summer. Everything had diluted, hot and burning and strong, to this speck of time. Jim didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.  
  
He saw it in the glistening desperation darkening Spock’s eyes, felt it in the way the world seemed to be catching up and closing in on them. His pulse raced as Spock bowed his head and claimed Jim’s mouth in a series of slow, wet kisses. Jim’s knees quivered as he spread them, guiding Spock in the warm vee of his legs.  
  
Spock was a heavy weight atop him, the only anchor Jim could ever see himself tethered to. The only person he felt he could cling to, and so he did.  
  
Jim gripped and grabbed at the hem of Spock’s shirt, humming persuasively against his mouth. Spock sat up, still kneeling between Jim’s legs as he yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. Without giving the action a single thought, Jim held his arms out – palms open and fingers spread, simply welcoming Spock into him.  
  
Somehow Jim felt this would be the first and last time he would find it in himself to offer anyone a hug – offer anyone  _himself_.  
  
Spock’s face flushed, his lips parting with obvious hunger. His inky eyelashes lowered as he surveyed Jim’s prone form from mouth to bellybutton and back. Wordlessly he placed his hands upon Jim’s torso, atop his t-shirt, and delicately pushed up. The material clung around Spock’s fingers, slid along Jim’s chest, until Jim lurched up with his arms still in the air and allowed Spock to shuck the article away.  
  
Jim shook his head when he popped out of the shirt, and laughed as he felt his hair go into wild disarray. The chuckle faded and hung in Jim’s throat when Spock’s palm curved against his cheek with an abruptly serious expression – well, moreso than usual.  
  
“What?” Jim said, sounding more breathless than he’d expected.  
  
“Nothing.” Spock sounded more Human than he ever had. He stared intently at Jim, looking too old for his years. “I was cataloguing this laugh. I didn’t recognise it.”  
  
Jim raised his eyebrows and smirked. That was possibly one of the strangest, shmoopiest, sweetest things he’d ever heard. “And how many laughs do I have?”  
  
“I have counted fourteen, so far.”  
  
Jim snorted as he leaned in and bumped his nose against Spock’s. “Does that make me untrustworthy, to have so many?”  
  
Spock held the back of Jim’s head, his fingertips warm and firm and relaxing at Jim’s nape. His eyelids fluttered shut as he brushed his mouth over Jim’s. “No, rather – fascinating. Complex.”  
  
Jim couldn’t help but laugh at that as he linked his arms around Spock’s neck and pulled them back to the ground. He didn’t think he was a complicated person. He liked books and booze and the outdoors and Spock. There wasn’t much else that he required to be content – happy, even. But if Spock felt the need to look further than that, he could. There wouldn’t be much of interest to find.  
  
Not that much time remained for them to discover each other, Jim thought with a shiver of panic. Spock chose that moment to strip them both with a single-minded purpose that sparked fissures across Jim’s skin and broke him into a light sweat, just from the attentiveness of Spock’s sharp eyes and shaking hands.  
  
Naked and baking under the sun, their curious hands turned insistent; grabbing and grappling sweaty skin, pushing and pulling and arching for every new feeling there could be. Dust and dirt rose up as harried kisses and touches and whispers turned to tumbling and rolling and laughing amid the swaying sea of prairie grass.  
  
Spock’s lips latched on to Jim’s with wet, hot greed. The kiss grew in hunger and desperation, their tongues slick with promises and their roaming hands screaming with possessiveness. Jim shuddered as Spock’s dick brushed his own, all heavy and full and smearing precum against their bellies. They instinctively slid and slotted together, clumsy and overeager, but not  _near_  giving a shit about finesse.  
  
Jim wanted to give Spock everything in any way he could, and just as fervidly desired anything Spock would give him.  
  
It was when Jim had a grass-stained knee hooked over Spock’s sun-seared shoulder and they were rolling tight and tucked and wet against each other that Jim realised just what was missing.  
  
Of course they wouldn’t have lube or condoms on them right now. Jim simultaneously groaned and laughed at the inconvenience that was his life.  
  
“And you woulda been the first to go where no man has gone before,” Jim said with a smile as he bucked his hips up and roughly thrust their cocks together.  
  
Spock shuddered, a faint whimper clinging in his throat as he cuffed Jim’s wrists and threw them above his head. His eyes went near black and the sun haloed his body in white illumination and bright blue sky.  
  
Then Spock surged forward like a man incensed, and Jim yielded like he was made for this. Jerked up into strong, sure arms that wouldn’t always be there. Jim rained sloppy, urgent kisses along the pale curves and slopes of Spock’s neck and jaw and shoulder. Tasted grass and dirt and copper and spice that filled his head and left him foggy and gasping for breath.  
  
Thrusting stuttered into mindless grinding as Jim dug aching fingertips into Spock’s back, down his sides, felt that drumming heart beneath his palm. The backs of Jim’s closed eyelids were a fucking lightshow, and his skin felt the same with each possessive bruise Spock left on his skin. They rutted against each other, a single entity of sweat and humid breath and curving, clenching limbs and muscles.  
  
Jim rolled and slammed Spock on his back, and rose over him in one unsmooth motion. Spock had only enough time to suck in a ragged breath before Jim had their cocks fisted together, already jacking them in sweat-slick tandem. Spock’s lips parted in a strangled ‘o’ just before his hips arched, and Jim sped up with laboured huffs of breath, his eyes never leaving Spock’s flushed face.  
  
And then a heatwave flared through Jim’s limbs, leaving white stars in his vision and a Vulcan shuddering in time beneath him. Spent and shivering and sweaty as all hell, Jim managed a weak laugh right before he collapsed atop Spock.  
  
For a moment they were still as the cloudless sky above, dirt and mud caked between them and on them. It made Jim feel part of every fucking thing in this world – including Spock.  
  
When Spock actually  _coughed_  at that point and said, “I may have swallowed grass,” Jim knew he was irreversibly in love.  
  
And it felt about as comforting as falling down a flight of stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

“Spock?”  
  
Jim’s voice was muffled against his neck. The cool breath upon Spock’s skin danced a shiver down his spine. Or perhaps it was simply the husky candour of that voice.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
He trailed his hand down the slick curve of Jim’s hip. Jim’s heart thudded through his ribcage, pulsing arrhythmically against Spock’s skin. His breath seemed to falter as he spoke.  
  
“I’ve never – you –”  
  
Spock opened his eyes and looked to the cloudless sky that enfolded them in blue. He allowed himself to frown at the uncharacteristic stutter in Jim’s speech. A vague sheen of distress bled through his skin.  
  
“What troubles you, Jim?”  
  
“It’s not – I wanted to say –” Jim made a sound of disgust against Spock’s neck.  
  
Spock passed the pad of his thumb along the pronounced ridge of Jim’s vertebrae. A Vulcan kiss on the backbone that made Jim Kirk so special and strong. Soft eyelashes delicately brushed the line of Spock’s jaw as Jim opened his eyes. Spock’s frown could only deepen as he felt wetness in their wake. He shifted to look down at Jim, but was thwarted by a rapid shake of shaggy hair.  
  
“Don’t. I can’t – I can’t say this if you’re looking at me with those damn eyes.”  
  
Spock felt the need to point out that his eyes were always his eyes, but now did not seem like the appropriate time. So he waited, keenly aware of the tension building at the base of his spine.  
  
The words were whispered so quietly, even Spock’s Vulcan ears might have missed Jim’s voice. “Love you.”  
  
Hands that had methodically trailed Jim’s back stilled, and Spock’s world teetered precariously. He felt dizzy although he lay flat on the ground. He was certain he felt his heart swell, almost painfully, against his side.  
  
Spock realised he needed to take in every detail of this moment. He could never forget. _Never_.  
  
Jim’s heart rate was one-hundred and thirteen beats per minute. Spock’s fingertips could feel the third thoracic vertebrae of Jim’s spine. The sky was the colour of Jim’s eyes the first day they had met, and Jim’s hair smelled of Spock’s very own bed. Unexplainable tears wet the side of Spock’s neck, cooling beneath Jim’s breath. Grass itched at his back, and two point seven miles away a car sped down the lonely, sweltering blacktop.  
  
For once, Spock did not know how long he had remained silent. He did not know how long he soaked in this setting, as if it were his dying moment and he was not ready to go. Spock knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they could not remain like this forever. He tucked the wish away as securely as he could and found his voice.  
  
“I –”  
  
The noise Jim uttered walked the thin line of a laugh and a sob. He shook his head. Spock could feel lips curving against his skin.  
  
“Don’t say anything back. I don’t – I don’t need to hear anything from you. Not from anyone. This was – this was good.  _Is_  good. ” Jim’s voice fractured, like the warning crack of an impending rockslide.  
  
Spock’s eyes stung. He blinked sharply and willed himself to breathe. “I would like to recipr–”  
  
“Maybe you do.” Jim did not sound as if he believed the words. “But it’s best for both of us that you don’t say anything. You’re getting hitched, and I’m –”  
  
Jim cut himself off and shrugged sharply. He sat up and straddled Spock’s thighs. A thick lock of hair fell over his brow as he looked down at Spock. His eyelashes were dark and spiky from the tears that Spock frustratingly failed to understand. A half smile canted his kiss-swollen lips. Sunlight highlighted the dirt-smattered plains of his shoulders.  
  
There was such strength in Jim’s body, in his mind. A fierce intellect, strong capable hands – those were all Jim Kirk. But Jim was also fragile, and Spock was painfully aware of this. Jim swaggered around with a provocative swing to his hip, and his eyes begged for punishment and mercy all at once. That was the expression Spock saw now.  
  
Spock sat up in a jerking motion, nearly toppling Jim off of his lap. His hands flashed out, arms snaking around his sweaty torso. He levelly met Jim’s stare. “And you are who I wish to be with.”  
  
 _Wished_  to be with, but...  
  
Something flared in Jim’s eyes. He fisted a hand in the back of Spock’s hair, leaving a pleasant tingle along his scalp. Jim leaned in, rested his brow upon Spock’s, and released a long and ragged breath. Tension drained from Jim’s muscles, leaving him lax upon Spock’s lap. “Okay.”  
  
 _Okay_?  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Jim’s curved lips brushed Spock’s as he spoke. “What else is there to say? What do we have but the present? I don’t have anything to offer you, Spock. Just today.” Cool, plush lips met his own in an achingly tender kiss. “Just this.” A thumb brushed the tip of his ear like a whisper, a secret that Jim would tell no one but him. “Just me.”  
  
Spock’s felt something shift within him. He couldn’t recognise or catalogue the feeling, but he understood that he would never be the same again.  
  
He hummed against Jim’s mouth and gave himself over. “Okay.”  
  
An hour must have passed where they simply lay embraced amid that golden, sighing grass. Jim’s head rested on Spock’s bare belly, his body stretched out perpendicular to Spock’s. His arms were flung out as if in worship of the sun, while Spock’s hand nestled in that crown of thick, unruly hair. Spock looked to the sky and was unsure of what he hoped to find written in the errant wisp of cloud or the red flash of a cardinal darting around his periphery.  
  
There were no answers to be found in the world around him. Only within himself could Spock filter through the day’s arguments, the past night’s tears, and this summer of unattainable possibilities. Up until these months with Jim there had been a plan, a straight path without divergence or surprise.  
  
But even with Jim intersecting Spock’s life, what could truly be done? Run away with Jim, and what then?  
  
At the time of the proposition, Spock had been riding on his still new-found tide of emotion. He had been riled and angry and righteous, full of indignation regarding T’Pring’s accusations and unbending logic.  
  
Unfortunately, with Spock’s mind now clear and his heart aching with twin twangs of need and regret, he could admit that T’Pring’s logic was essentially flawless. If Spock were presented with his own situation from the perspective of an outsider, he would no doubt be horrified with the choices being made.  
  
And still, Spock did not care. Not when he could feel this unadulterated ardour filter through Jim’s skin, through his very hair follicles. How could Spock care about anything when everything he cared about literally rested in his hands?  
  
“I  _do_  adore you, James Kirk.”  
  
Jim jolted, but not away. He seemed to recover quickly when he laughed at the sky and finished with a sigh. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
  
Spock could not comprehend why someone would thank another for affection, but Jim had never given Spock enough time to puzzle him out. He speculated that Jim had long ago disposed of certain pieces of himself, and that even if Spock managed to arrange a clear picture of James Kirk, there would always be gaps.  
  
As if already communicating through a bond, both he and Jim eventually began to collect their clothes. They dressed each other slowly – knuckles brushed over curved rungs of ribs, fingertips trailed the arc of a hipbone, palms paused at knobbly wrists and shoulders and elbows.  
  
When they were vaguely presentable once more and their hair was smoothed down, they simply stood apart and stared at each other. Jim had this curl to his lips that Spock had never seen before. A smile, but also a frown.  
  
Jim had so many expressions – so many laughs and smiles and moods that Spock could never catalogue in one lifetime. Spock wished he had the time. He wished this didn’t feel as if the world were closing in on them like one mighty fist.  
  
Spock sucked in a breath. “I –”  
  
Jim licked his thumb and dragged it lightly down Spock’s cheek, his grin widening.  
  
 _Fondness_  –  _disappointment_  –  _resignation_.  
  
“You had dirt there.”  
  
“Ah. Well.” Spock resisted the all too-human urge to shuffle his feet.  
  
Since meeting Jim, the world had become sharper, more colourful and tangible. And painful. Unmasking his emotions sometimes felt like trying to breathe underwater, while other times Spock felt as if he’d been swimming for his entire life.  
  
“You should go home,” Jim said. His head was cocked slightly, the breeze blowing hair into his eyes. “I think you’ve got a mess to clean up.”  
  
For once, Spock felt that hyperbole would actually better suit the situation he would be walking into, but instead he just nodded. Something felt brittle here, something –  
  
Jim stepped into Spock’s space, took up the air and gravity as he always did. Firm, confident hands cupped Spock’s face and brought him down, just as Jim went on his toes and leaned in. Jim’s kiss was sweet and lush, bursting Spock’s senses with splashes of love and loyalty.  
  
Just as something grey boiled in the horizon of Jim’s emotions, he released Spock with a huff of breath. Their gazes met and held, suspended in silence.  
  
Jim smiled – his brave smile. Spock knew that one. He let his lips curve in return.  
  
Their hands brushed, fingers laced, unlaced and slipped away.  
  
Without a word, they turned and went their separate ways. Jim to his home and Spock to his own.  
  
 _I think you’ve got a mess to clean up_.  
  
With his emotions still uncharacteristically muddled and his mind filing information at a rapid pace, Spock returned to the farm sooner than he had hoped. He knew the exact amount of time it would take to reach the house, and yet the minutes had passed quickly, and now he was standing on the porch and staring at the door.  
  
Spock didn’t know exactly what would lie beyond the threshold, but he knew it would be unpleasant. Upon reaching the immaculate lawn, he had sensed T’Pring arctic fury and the icy slap of indignation that cracked across his temples the moment she noticed his presence. That was not a promising reaction.  
  
But Spock was not a coward – or he had resolved not to be after witnessing the hardships with which Jim lived. So he took a centring breath, squared his shoulders, angled his chin, and entered.  
  
The first thing that registered was the bitter aroma of Vulcan tea. The smell was soothing to Spock’s frayed nerves. The past few weeks had served to unravel him to an extent that he had never been before. Each new emotion that ripped through his once neatly knit control left new edges ragged and loose. Spock had no idea whether he wanted to strip himself of everything Vulcan or wrap himself tightly in the comfort of familiarity.  
  
Spock did not know how to do both. He did not know if that was possible. And even if he could accomplish a precarious balance, would the risk of baring himself to the world be worth the effort put forth?  
  
“We must speak plainly.”  
  
T’Pring stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking pristine and controlled and everything Spock should want, but nothing that he did.  
  
Spock desired what T’Pring represented – perfection, respect, success.  
  
Spock also desired what Jim represented – freedom, bravery, adventure.  
  
But as this day dragged on with seeming indefiniteness, Spock was growing to come to terms with the fact that he could not have both. He had to make a choice.  
  
“Do we not always?” Spock said, which earned him a frigid flash of annoyance.  
  
“No, but we will now. Come and sit.”  
  
Spock wished to stand, simply to be contrary, but he quashed the childish reaction. Jim was undoubtedly affecting his decisions, even when they were not together. So Spock followed T’Pring into the kitchen and sat at the table across from her.  
  
T’Pring’s attention fell to the tea, which she poured into two mugs. She slid one cup across the table, the scrape of ceramic to wood the only sound between them. When she looked up and their gazes locked, there was nothing. No warmth or recognition as there was with Jim. It was thin glass which linked them, brittle and lacking substance.  
  
But they were still bonded on some level, and Spock had no choice but to begrudgingly acknowledge that.  
  
When had he begun to slave over his lack of choice? When had that begun to matter?  
  
“You do realise that whatever dalliance you have forged with the boy must be severed the moment you leave this planet.”  
  
Not a question, but a statement of fact.  
  
Spock held T’Pring’s eyes without wavering. “Perhaps not.”  
  
“That is a vague and useless statement. It disappoints me to hear you speak so negligently.”  
  
She did not look upset in the slightest, but Spock had recognised the manipulation when he heard it. Unfortunately that did not muffle the pang of guilt he felt in his chest at the words.  
  
Spock had always been the disappointment.  
  
“What precisely do you wish to convey, T’Pring?”  
  
T’Pring took a delicate sip of tea, set the mug down with a quiet crack, and folded her hands upon the table as she met Spock’s glower.  
  
“I find myself under the impression that you have forgotten how deeply we are entwined, Spock. I can feel how you feel in regard to James Kirk, and I find the entire predicament extremely unsettling. Do you have only your interests in mind? Do you have no concept of the needs of the many over the needs of the one? As insignificant as you may feel, it is a fact that your current descent into vulgarity would ruin your parents. Your mother would be particularly devastated, as you are aware of the delicacy of her Human psyche.”  
  
“My mother is bonded to a Vulcan. If anyone would empathise with me, it would be her.”  
  
“You genuinely believe that.” T’Pring’s eyes were like glittering desert sands, and her voice just as dry and harsh. “Your mother raised you as a Vulcan, Spock. She put you through the Vulcan educational system. She kept you away from Earth for eighteen years. And you presume that she did these things because she hoped you would one day embrace your lesser half, elope with an underage, irresponsible Human, and disregard your promising future? More importantly – do you believe that  _you_  deserve such an outcome for your life? Have you truly convinced yourself that, over time, you will not grow to be disappointed in both yourself and your makeshift partner?”  
  
Was that what Spock desired? Was that what his mother thought? Spock did not know, he had never inquired into the matter.  
  
Spock was finding it difficult to breathe. Green stained the edges of his vision, and his fingers went vice-like and white around his forgotten mug. A dull roar, like sea crashing into rock burned his ears.  
  
“It must be painful,” T’Pring said abruptly, her mouth turned into a dainty frown.  
  
“What,” Spock said too quietly.  
  
“To be everyone but yourself.”  
  
That jolt came again, a sharp reed jabbing between his ribs.  
  
“I am only myself,” Spock replied, trying to put steel behind his words. He did not know what T’Pring meant, but her placid, knowing expression and the confidence in her voice shook him.  
  
“You try to be as your father is and you find it stifling. You try to be as your mother is and you find it overwhelming. And recently you have been attempting to emulate certain aspects of James Kirk, have you not? A brazen and selfish Spock.”  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
“I can feel that you believe you now fit somewhere, with someone. His persona is something you can latch onto and almost make yours. For the first time, you think you are a part of something.”  
  
Spock could feel heat rush to his cheeks, his fingers going numb, and his heart rate racing an angry and panicked beat. He could only gawk at T’Pring and say, “No,” and try to believe that.  
  
“Yes.” T’Pring’s features were like stone as she leaned in and dropped her tone. “Let me tell you something that you are all too aware of, Spock. You are not James Kirk. You are not your parents or your peers. The only way you will be able to definitively discern who you are is to return with me. Follow the path your family set out for you. Leave a mark on your world. Matter to someone.”  
  
Spock scraped back his chair and stood. The air was stiflingly humid, too liquid and thick as it sluiced down his throat and left him choking for breath.  
  
“I  _do_  matter to someone.”  
  
“Humans are fickle creatures,” T’Pring replied without leaving her seat. “Today you matter, and in a month you will not. That is their way.”  
  
“ _Stop_.”  
  
Spock’s head was spinning. He felt dizzy, his knees weak. There was too much to process. Too many arguments to weed through. This constant barrage of T’Pring was overwhelming, like a sandstorm that cut at his eyes and clogged his pores and ripped at his raw, over-sensitised skin.  
  
“ _Listen_.” T’Pring bit off her words like a carnivore tearing chucks from a carcass. “Look at yourself, Spock. Look  _into_  yourself. Can you recall the most recent time which you meditated? Has it been days or weeks? Your heart has eclipsed your mind, Spock – but it can be undone. You may have peace. You may have clarity, simplicity.”  
  
Spock had not realised until now that he had literally backed himself up against a wall. T’Pring stood before him, offering him another chance to escape this world that was swiftly becoming pounding blood and white noise and the thunder of panic.  
  
She was offering him freedom from confusion.  
  
 _I think you’ve got a mess to clean up_.  
  
To clean up his life – his mess.  
  
T’Pring was at his ear – too close, too much like being buried beneath her without space to breathe.  
  
“You matter to several people, Spock. James Kirk is not one of them. Not in the way that you would prefer.”  
  
“His and my feelings are not artificial,” Spock said, each word a sharp grit between his teeth.  
  
“And what of a year from now?” T’Pring said, her voice steady near his jaw. “Five years?”  
  
“ _Silence_.”  
  
“Will your Human’s emotions have shifted? Is he not a tempestuous boy, Spock?”  
  
“That is not –”  
  
“Do you trust him, Spock? Do you truly trust James Kirk with your  _life_?”  
  
Spock collapsed inside.  
  
He looked at himself – genuinely  _looked_  – and saw the crumbled buildings of what once was. He saw stone walls blown through with jagged holes and the foundations of the earth scorched and barren. This was his mind now – this was what his self-control looked like.  
  
Order and logic barely stood, and it was Jim who held the rocks to be thrown.  
  
Visibly shaken from the images Spock had perceived within himself, he swallowed with an audible  _click_  and latched onto T’Pring’s piercing, expectant expression.  
  
Spock acknowledged that he loved Jim.  
  
Jim, whom he adored with such depth that Spock also blamed him for bringing him to his knees.  
  
Jim, who undoubtedly loved Spock in return, but also needed someone to distract him from his unfortunate circumstances.  
  
But it was not enough. Not enough to keep him strong, when it was that same cursed emotion which weakened him.  
  
Love... love could be compartmentalised. Spock only had to tear it out first.  
  
 _I think you’ve got a mess to clean up_.  
  
Indeed.

 

**End, Part One**


End file.
